


Where's my phone?

by Heyokaooohshiny



Series: Something I can never have [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugged Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fast and loose with POV, Frottage, Humiliation, Hurt, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Stiles whump, Triggers, Underage Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, Werewolves, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5152361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyokaooohshiny/pseuds/Heyokaooohshiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles comes face to face with the Alpha wolf the night of the Winter Formal he didn't expect the feral werewolf to entertain his desperate negotiations. What he didn't count on, was what it would cost him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot in a possible series of one-shots that follow the TW timeline Until such time I run away with it. Or not. My muse reserves the right to fuck off at any time. Author will attempt to update tags as they become relevant. Have triggers? Find a cozy blanket and hot soothing drink and be grateful you had the foresight to skip this fic. Not sorry.
> 
> Song to listen to: Hurts-Mercy

He was a little (okay, a lot) ashamed to admit that up until now he might have been on a little bit of an adrenaline high.

From finding the body of Laura Hale in the woods with Scott that first night, to running from feral Alpha’s in the darkened hallways of their high school, to high speed chases in Derek’s Camaro, Stiles could see a pattern emerging. What did it say about him that he threw himself head first into the supernatural mess that Scott’s life had become? Yeah they were best friends and anyone who knew the pair could only expect where one would go the other would follow. What it didn’t explain was the absolute frenzy that Stiles attacked these new challenges with. His devotion to the ‘wolfy’ cause would have made more sense if he himself had been bitten.

Maybe he could blame some of it on his ADHD. He found he could redirect some of his hyperactivity, and some of that impulsiveness he was so well known for. Between throwing himself into research and running for his life, it was ironic that Stiles felt more grounded now than he had since his mother’s death. 

It could have something to do with hormones.  He was a teenager.  His long standing adoration of a certain strawberry blond goddess hadn’t disappeared or diminished in any way. To his consternation maturity only came with a deepening sense of understanding. He’d come to the realization that even if his feelings weren’t reciprocated there was a glimmer of hope for (at minimum?) mutual respect.  His heartache may also have been diminished by recent lingering thoughts on a certain angry, brooding werewolf; but he wasn’t dwelling on it. At least not now (or maybe never. never also sounded really good). Not because he didn’t have a hope in hell--

Rather because there was a claw currently held to his gulping throat.

This moment would remain branded in Stiles’ mind in humiliating detail for a long time to come.  He was literally _on his knees_ before a crazed Alpha werewolf. His desperation to secure Lydia’s welfare transferred the second Peter placed his claw under his jaw with deceptive restraint. Stiles had seen firsthand the violence the man-wearing monster could unleash and despite mentioning only a second earlier that he didn’t care whether he lived or not, he suddenly found it to be quite untrue. His already rapid heartbeat surged with panicked desperation.

Peter needed no words, no verbal commands, to get Stiles to fumble to his feet. Stiles gasped for breath as he was dragged upright. He flailed, grasping at Peter’s arm while the Alpha held his gaze with burning blue eyes. Stiles found he couldn’t look away, not if he didn’t want his throat impaled.

The blank expression on the werewolf’s face didn’t waver but this didn’t reassure Stiles in the least. The guy was clearly banana balls. He’d gone from bloodlust to serene Hannibal faster than the teen could blink.

The silence stretched out between them, broken only by Stiles’ frantic gasps.

With an almost imperceptible head tilt, almost like he had found something he was looking for, Peter released his hold on Stiles.  “Call your friend. Tell Jackson where she is. That’s all you get.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Stiles felt his brow crinkle in confusion. _Why, What--?_ Then his eyes widened and he fumbled for the phone in his pocket. As soon as he saw that he was being obeyed, Peter turned and stalked back the way he came. It was obvious he expected Stiles to follow him across the lacrosse field.

It was the hardest thing Stiles did in recent memory. But he cut off any bitchy protest from a mostly wasted Jackson and got right to the sobering point. Lydia needed medical attention yesterday. If Stiles had the brief thought about asking for backup for himself it was pretty hastily dashed, he didn’t have time. He was on his own with crispy Peter.

He hated to leave Lydia where she lay bleeding out but it was either that or Peter would end them both right there. So, not happening.

Sucking his bottom lip nervously between his teeth, Stiles tripped after Peter’s shadow, wondering exactly how he was expected to help the wolf find Derek.

 

Peter was very intrigued by the lanky teen trapped in the confines of the Jeep. As they drove towards the carpark, he took the opportunity to bathe in the intoxicating scent of fear, frustration, and anxiousness coming from young Stiles. It was a heady cocktail he was familiar with but matched with those startlingly intelligent brown eyes he found the combination increasingly distracting.

He directed the boy to where he had stashed Jennifer’s car. They got out of the jeep and Peter immediately unlocked the stolen car and opened the driver’s side, withdrawing the laptop from under the seat.

“Good luck finding a signal down here,” Stiles offered blithely as Peter flipped open the case.

He wordlessly handed the teen a black square router.

“Oh! Mi-fi.” Stiles’ disappointment was palpable. “aaand you’re a Mac guy . . . does that go for all werewolves or is that just a personal preference?”

Peter leveled an unimpressed look at him. “Turn it on. Get connected,” he ordered in his pathologically quiet voice.  He really didn’t have time for this insolence. Even if he was equal parts annoyed and fascinated with what was either the kid’s bravery or lack of self-preservation he had to find his precious nephew.

“Y’know, you’re really killing the whole werewolf mystique thing,” Stiles muttered unhappily as he flipped the router over for the code, “look, you’re still going to need Scott’s user name and password and I’m sorry but I don’t know them.”

“You know both of them,” Peter disagreed. His tenuous hold on calm was fraying.

“No, I don’t.” Stiles insisted mulishly.

The deceiving stutter thump of his heart was a dead give-away. Peter had to give it to him, the child could lie without an outward twitch. Must be years of experience spent as child of the Sheriff. It was unfortunate that Peter had decades to learn to detect and hone his deception abilities. Plus, you know, _werewolf_.

“Even if I couldn’t hear your heartbeat, I would still be able to tell that you’re lying.” Peter warned him.

If Stiles had been brave enough to look at him he would have seen the beginning of a snarl on Peter’s face despite the persuasive calm of his voice.

“Dude, I swear to god--!” Stiles turned towards him.

Peter’s patience snapped. He grabbed the slender boy by the back of his slender neck and slammed his face violently into the trunk of the car. The barest prickle of claws made their presence known on Stiles’ pale skin. “I can be very persuasive Stiles,” the werewolf continued in a frighteningly soft voice. He leaned in closer, nudging a knee between Stiles’ open legs in order to press closer. “Don’t make me persuade you.” He huffed right into his ear.

Stiles froze. Peter saw the teen’s skin prickle with goosebumps in reaction to the verbal and non-verbal threat. He held back a growl at how reactive the boy was. _How delightful._  

 

It was a damn good thing that werewolves weren’t mind readers, Stiles thought hysterically. Cause right about now, Peter would be getting an earful of what suspiciously sounded like a high-pitched rabbit scream. His brain sounded like a screaming rabbit. Of course. How manly.

Then again, what else were you supposed to do when a clearly psychotic werewolf on a revenge bender made an overtly sexual threat against you? Clearly, Stiles wanted to scream like a dying bunny.

What the fuck was his life?!

Stiles managed to peel his face from the trunk with a wince and waggle of his jaw. Nothing was broken, although he was going to bruise like a freaking peach. He resolutely ignored the slide of Peter’s pants on the back of his thighs as he withdrew. The sickening thud of Stiles’ heartbeat in his eardrums was all he could hear for a few minutes until he forced his breathing into some semblance of control.  His skin prickled with hyper awareness. Also, there may have been some internal freaking out of a major kind, but Stiles shoved it down ruthlessly until he could secure Scott’s safety.

He grimly turned his attention back to the computer, painfully conscious of the werewolf in a ridiculous leather trench coat standing just over his shoulder. What was with the Hales and leather? Honestly? Were werewolves born with a predilection for intimidating biker-gear? _Focus Stiles_.

Stiles cracked his neck and hazarded a quick glance under his lashes at Peter.

“What happens after you find Derek?” he demanded.

“Don’t think Stiles,” Peter snarled, “Type.”

Letting out a slow breath (it might be his last) and jiggling the keyboard as he typed, Stiles persisted, “You’re going to kill people. Aren’t you?”

“Only, the responsible ones.” Peter said, sounding completely reasonable.

 _Oh god._ Stiles felt the pressure on his brain increase. If he did this for Peter he might end up responsible for more deaths. At the very least, he could be an accessory to murder.

“Look if I do this, you have to promise to leave Scott out of it.” Stiles willed his voice to sound firm. He hoped the older werewolf wouldn’t see the tremor in his hands.

“Do you know why wolves hunt in packs?” Peter actually looked exasperated, like he wasn’t sure why he was bothering explaining himself rather than pinning Stiles in another display of dominance, “It’s because their favorite prey are too large to be brought down by one wolf. I need Derek _and_ Scott. I need both of them.”

Feeling defeated at the answer, Stiles replied, “He’s not going to help you.”

Stiles glanced up nervously as Peter leaned closer, “Oh he will.” The underlying threat in his voice was clear. “Because it’ll save Allison.” His voice came closer and Stiles slid his eyes back to the keyboard, palms sweating. “And _you_ will because it’ll save Scott.”

Unable to help himself Stiles shot Peter an uneasy look. “What do y-you mean?” _Shit_. That time the tremor in his voice was unmistakable.

Peter smugly continued, “When they catch him,” he raised his eyebrows, “and they will. Do you really think that they’re going to let him live? Especially after having been so close to one of their own?”

He _hated_ that Peter made sense. He might have actually snarled. A little.

“Stiles.” That whisper was next to his ear. Peter was practically pressed up against him once more and it took every fiber of concentration Stiles owned to focus on the laptop and not jerk back.

“All of the power is in your hands now. It’s your choice.” Peter continued sweetly, like he was trying to convert him to the Dark Side or something. The Wolf-y Side. “Are you going to save him? Your best friend? Whom you know _so well_ you even have his user name and pass word.”

Stiles felt like he was going to hurl. There was so much bad going on right now he didn’t even know. Feeling backed into the proverbial corner, he pulled the laptop closer and typed in Scott’s username with a choked huff of air.

He could almost feel Peter’s jaw drop in disbelief. It almost would have been worth it to see the look on his face. He didn’t dare turn around (not unless he wanted to risk a face full of Peter’s chest hair). Nope. All the nope.

“His user name is ‘Allison’?” Peter said deadpan.

 _Oh buddy, it gets better_ , Stiles commiserated as he continued to type in the password.

“His password is also ‘Allison’?” It was possible for the wolf’s voice to get even more unimpressed.

“Still want him in your pack?” Stiles asked bitterly. _Hey buddy, you bit him, you bought him!_ That thought gave him enough sass to shoot a hateful look over his shoulder. Just in time to see Peter’s eye roll. 

At least it gave Stiles some breathing room as Peter moved to contemplate his choices in life.

The reprieve however wasn’t for long.

 

Peter knew Stiles was trying to stall for time. Now that they had access to the data it was a matter of Stiles abilities to crack the GPS on the phone. It would only be seconds now, and his patience was at an end. He leveled the stressed-out teen with an intense stare that had Stiles fidgeting with unease.

It pleased him to see the younger boy react to his superior strength of will.

His silence visibly bothered Stiles. He half-turned to meet Peter’s level gaze. “It’s loading,” he explained tentatively. When Peter continued to stand as a silent sentinel Stiles’ eyes darted away and he nudged the laptop with an impatient “Come on!” exhaled under his breath.

Only a second later the results rolled up on the screen and Stiles whole body reacted to what popped up as Derek’s location.

“Wait, what the--?!” He gestured at the screen perplexed, “That’s where they’re keeping him? His own house?”

Peter squinted at the map of the preserves. Specifically where the Hale house stood. Understanding cleared his face, “Not _at_ it, _under_ it.” Anticipation filled him with purpose and he began to pack up the laptop.

“Why, what’s under it?” It looked like Stiles braced himself for the answer.

“The tunnel and basement I used to escape the fire,” Peter paused a moment to enjoy the irony, “I know exactly where that is.”

It was that moment the subsonic sound of a wolf’s howl reached the fringes of Peter’s attention. He recognized the inexperienced sound of Scott’s call. It prickled along his awareness, alerting him to his beta’s predicament. “And I’m not the only one.” It sounded like Scott was already en-route to Derek. Good. It would make his job that much easier.

Once everything was back in the car, Peter paused only to listen to the sound of Derek’s faint response to Scott, it’s deeper, more familiar call gave him more of a tug towards the preserve. He was still looking vaguely into the distance when he said, “Give me your keys,” to Stiles and held out his hand expectantly.

His gaze snapped back at Stiles’ sigh as the boy reluctantly dug out the keys to his jeep.

“Careful, she grinds in second,” he offered in defeat.

Distracted from his Beta’s by Stiles’ incredibly fascinating display of selflessness, (first for the red-head, repeatedly for the dullard Scott, and now for his inanimate and worn down blue CJ-5 Jeep), Peter found himself curious for his next reaction. He swept the keys out of Stiles hand and effortlessly squeezed the handful of plastic and metal, displaying the mangled result to the open-mouthed teen.

Slowly, as though he was unsure of what to make of the demonstration, Stiles took back his keys.

 _Does the boy ever close that wet pink mouth of his?_ The unbidden thought surfaced in Peter’s dark mind. His eyes narrowed before he turned around and opened the driver’s side door. He’d wasted enough time.

“So you’re not going to kill me?” Stiles’ voice reached him. It was marked by an influx of confidence. A challenge.

That rankled Peter’s wolf. He had been far too generous. He whirled around, head tilted in assessment as Stiles immediately realized his mistake and took a step back.

“Oh, god,” Stiles choked.

 _Prey_ , Peter decided as Stiles retreated backwards clumsily. Then in faint surprise, he reassessed, _potential._

“Don’t you understand yet? I’m not the bad guy here.” He found himself explaining.

Stiles stopped in his retreat. It was more in disbelief than anything. “You turn into a giant monster with red eyes and fangs, and you’re **not** the bad guy here?” He sounded incredulous.

Peter let out a huff, “I like you Stiles—” That comment seemed to knock all the air from the boys lungs, Stiles almost staggered. “Since you’ve helped me, I’m going to give you something in return.” He paused magnanimously. “Do you want the bite?”

Stiles did a double take. “What?”

“Do you want. The bite?” Peter punctuated with a hint of impatience. What he was offering was an incredible opportunity. Now that he had recognized the potential in the young teen, he could almost _taste_ the brilliant, intrepid wolf this boy would mature into. “If it doesn’t kill you . . . and it could, you’ll become like us.”

He could see the thoughts whirring through the boys head.

“Like you,” Stiles exhaled.

“Yes,” Peter goaded him. “A werewolf. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”

Stiles remained oddly silent. His brown eyes dark with who knows what thoughts as Peter took a step closer.

“That first night in the woods, I took Scott because I needed a pack. It could have easily been you.” _The outcome would have been much more satisfying_ , Peter mused. “You’d be every bit as powerful as him.”

He could see his words were drawing a reaction from Stiles. His heart beat was calming, his gaze was turning inward as he clearly debated the offer. Peter kept his words hypnotic and calm. “No more standing by his side, watching him become stronger, and quicker. More popular. Watching him get the girl. You’d be equals. Maybe more.”

Stile’s eyes were darting to his reluctantly and Peter inwardly crowed in victory. He could sense the teen yearning for everything he mentioned. He could also sense the personal struggle which would make this bite all the more satisfactory. Peter had to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth. He _wanted_ this boy in his pack.

Slowly, so not to startle him, Peter reached for Stiles wrist. He pulled it upwards, encouraged by the fact that Stiles didn’t offer a struggle. He could hear the churning fumble of the teen’s heartbeat. A mix of anticipation and fear, likely.

_PreypotentialpreypotentialPrey **PREY** preypotential_

Peter’s own instincts were screaming as the scent of Stiles’ skin came closer to his face. He tilted his head towards the teen’s wrist. “Yes or no?” He locked his eyes with Stiles, waiting for an answer.

The boy’s mouth was closed but his nostrils flared with skittishness. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Peter’s. Though silent, his whole body screamed with indecision.

 _Close enough_. Peter decided. He leaned into Stiles’ wrist, ready to savor the taste, his sharp incisors dropping in a gleaming flash of white.

In a move that was admittedly impressive for a human, Stiles jerked his arm out of Peter’s grip with a deep inhale.

Peter’s jaw clenched. He _hated_ being disappointed _._

“I don’t want to be like you.” Stiles’ voice dripped contempt.

Slight uptick.

The ache in Peter’s jaw eased slightly but his eyes narrowed with cruelty. “Do you know what I heard just now?”

Stiles recoiled a little at his expression.

“Your heart beating slightly faster on the words: I. Don’t. Want.” Peter was satisfied when once more, Stiles’ eyes slid away briefly in guilt. “You may believe that you’re telling me the truth but you are lying to yourself.”

To have something he wanted so viscerally, dangled before him like a beautifully wrapped gift and then taken away with such abrupt rudeness, Peter decided even if Stiles didn’t want the bite, he still wanted the boy in his pack; and there were other ways of claiming misbehaving humans.  

“I am not going to kill you Stiles.” Peter decided.

Stiles looked startled at his announcement but in no way comforted. Before he could blink, he found himself spun around and manhandled against the side of the car.

“K-kind of not feeling very confident in my outlook on survival, right now,” stuttered Stiles, hands scrabbling for purchase. The side of his face was throbbing from earlier and he didn’t have to test his strength for long to know he was hopelessly overpowered.

Peter held fistfuls of Stile’s dress shirt in his hands as he pressed his larger body meaningfully against the youth. He continued as though uninterrupted, “in fact, I’m so _inspired_ by your sharp mind I’ve decided to reward you for your assistance.” He leaned forward and took a deep drag of air from the back of Stiles’ closely shorn hair. _Intoxicating._

Stiles’ throat clicked audibly as he swallowed. “Uh,” His voice dried up. He tried again and found himself hoarse with fear, “Uh, totally not necessary dude. No—no reward needed here.”

**_“Stiles.”_ **

This time, the sound of his name on Peter’s lips was unbearably sinister. The pitch of his voice was deepening with Alpha tenor; it was also spoken directly into his ear, provoking an uncontrollable spasm of terror to shoot through Stiles. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

One of Peter’s hands crept up to cradle the back of his neck. “I wish I had more time to devote to this,” Peter said conversationally. “But because I’m short on time, and control, I need you to remain as still as possible.” His hot breath steamed against Stiles’ shoulder. “I really don’t want to damage you.”

“What?!” Stiles choked cry was strangled by the weight of the other man’s hands reaching forward to unbuckle his pants. He froze as the wolf deftly wrestled the fabric past his hips. “N-uh no!!” He panicked at the sensation of cold air hitting his dick. There was cold air. On. His. Dick. “Oh fuck—oh god! What are you doing?!” He shouted brokenly.

His thrashing was no use against the claws trapping him against the car door. Peter was now attending to the front of his own pants. Stiles went ice cold at the sound of a zipper being shoved down.

“Put your hands on the car,” Peter’s guttural order cut through Stiles avalanche of panic. “If you don’t want to be very messily split in two you will keep them there until I say otherwise.”

Stiles stared blankly ahead. _How is this happening?_ He watched uncomprehending as Peter placed his hands on the doorframe, pressing them there with a rather convincing pinch of claws. There was a strange buzzing in his brain. He blinked slowly.

The hot brand of flesh against his bare ass pulled him out of his impending shock. He yelped and jerked his hips forward reflexively.

The werewolf groaned deeply.

“Stay. **Still**.”

Peter pushed Stiles’ long dress shirt out of the way in order to fit his hips against the boys pale backside. The sight of which, had him salivating. It was smooth and deliciously round. He could scent purity on him and was pleased to have something so delightful to play with.

Now that his hands were free, he grasped his hard cock in hand, careful of the claws, and traced the seam of Stile’s ass with its angry purple head. He rubbed a trail of glistening pre-cum in the dimples he found hollowed at the bottom of the boy’s sweeping spine.

Stiles’ breath whistled high and fast as Peters hips began to roll against his backside. His long fingers gripped tight and white-knuckled to the frame of the door. The reality of the mad man, no, the _fucking_ feral werewolf rutting between his ass cheeks began to skew with his sense of reality. Distantly Stiles knew he was hyperventilating. He stared ahead with unseeing eyes.

Kicking Stile’s feet apart impatiently, Peter plasters himself to the teens back and snaps a couple of harsh jabs with his hips. A low resonant growl begins to roll upward from Peter’s belly, through his chest and out his sharply clenched teeth. The sound resonates in Stiles’ bones. He flinches as drool splatters along the crease of his ear, slipping down his bent neck like a phantom caress. He barely manages to catch the sob that threatens to burst from his lips. His swallowed cries settle like a hard fist under his ribs. If he doesn’t make a sound, it won’t be real right?   

The dry chafe of the wolf’s dick against his ass is slowly eased by some kind of slickness. Stiles isn’t sure (can’t let himself think about) what would create so much glide but the unmistakable wet sound of flesh slapping together is a horror soundtrack worse than any nightmare.

He wants to cry for help. Wants reach in his pocket and blind dial 911 (he can do it with all their numbers, he’s practiced). He knows he can’t though. Knows the outcome of that would be similar to what is currently putrefying in trunk of the stolen car. More people would die, for nothing, and Stiles couldn’t find it in himself to be responsible.  

Regardless, Stiles wants Scott to show up before . . . before Peter . . . hell, he’d even be happy if Derek did the whole last minute manly rescue thing.  But the lump wedged in his throat, the hotness at the back of his eyes; it’s like his body knew it wasn’t going to be one of those times, even if his mind wasn’t ready to accept it.

Peter smooths a rough hand up Stiles’ chest to his neck where he closes his fingers around the column of his throat. Stiles screws his eyes shut at the faint prickle of claws. He’s anchored now, at the neck, and on his left thigh, by the werewolf’s possessive grip.

“That’s it, pup,” Peter grunts between his distorted jaw, as he jackknifes against the boys now reddened ass cheeks. The large mushroomed tip of Peter’s hungry cock occasionally catches on Stile’s tightly clenched rim, making him flinch and tense even more.  “Submit to your Alpha—”

The words made Stiles stomach swoop to his feet in cold dread. _What? No--!_ Stile’s confused mind tumbled. _He’s not going to--? Is he?_

Stile’s brown eyes widened. _Oh no. nononononononono!_

The impact of hips against his backside speeds up and the sloppy wet sound that fills his ears makes Stiles flush dizzyingly hot with shame. If only he’d kept his big freakin’ mouth shut, Peter would have been on his way by now! Instead, he had to push his luck and now he was about to become a psychotic werewolves _bitch!_ Angry hot tears, filled Stiles’ eyes but he refused to let them fall.  

The clawed hands pulled him tighter against the hot presence at his back and the unwanted slick jabbing begins to stutter predictably. Stiles lets out a low moan of denial.  Peter’s sharp fingertips are digging in. There are going to be bone-deep bruises, if not claw marks, to remind him of—

One jab manages to catch on the (by now) swollen edge of Stile’s abused rim. He is caught unprepared when Peter’s hips swivel just that much more and the tip of his scorching cock forces past the tightly clenched muscle. Stiles shout of agony is cut off simply because it hurts too much to scream. He writhes against the car, ripping his fingernails bloody on the door frame.

The hand on his hip holds him where Peter needs and that’s all that matters as the wolf drapes himself against Stiles’ back, grunting his release. Stiles can feel the hot flood of semen filling his insides in gushing pulses. He stands there, spread open, legs trembling with shock as Peter breathes heavily against his neck.

“I’m pleased to see you are obedient when it matters, Stiles.” Peter croons. The hand he had gripped around his neck trailed down the front of his chest to press against his belly. He pressed his palm flat against the strange pressure in his lower abdomen.

Stiles’ breath hitched in horror as he realized why Peter was touching him there. (NO nono don’tthinkaboutit  noononono)

Humming in what could be assumed was satisfaction, Peter withdrew the head of his cock from Stile’s ass. A rush of come leaked out and Stiles made a dying sound. Leaning close to the boy’s ear, Peter made his parting shot, “Be glad, that was just the tip.”

Black and white spots, like snow, greyed Stiles vision and he staggered back from the car as Peter tucked himself back into his pants.

“Next time will be better, Stiles. I promise. Now, I need to collect my nephew.” Came Peter’s voice as he closed the driver’s side door behind himself.

The impact of the door closing, shook Stiles out of the worst of his shock. He realized he was standing in the middle of a mostly empty carpark with his pants and underwear around his knees. With a flail of panic his grabbed his pants and tried to cover himself. To no one’s surprise the buttons on his dress pants were completely torn away. Stiles braced himself on Roscoe with one arm while clutching his pants shut. He stood there for an indeterminate amount of time, eyes blank, and form seized with tremors.

“H-ha. D-d-day zero s-since I was a creeper wolf-free zone,” Stiles heard his broken snicker. He pinched his eyes with his fingers in an attempt to hold back the tears. _Great,_ he was cracking.

His sniffle was wet and gross. With more effort than he felt he had left to expend, he heaved open the Jeep’s door and gingerly reached behind the seat for his gym bag. There was no way he could go anywhere (or sit down) without cleaning—

He blinked at the towel in his hand. His chest began to constrict as his thoughts skittered away from the task at hand. Saliva began to pool in his mouth and Stiles swallowed convulsively, sweating through the urge to throw up.

Gritting his teeth, Stiles let go of the front of his pants and shoved the towel down the back.

Keys are fu—out of commission, Stiles directed his thoughts determinedly. Good thing _somewolf_ didn’t expect a teenager to know how to hotwire a car. Google was a beautiful, beautiful, thing to someone with ADHD who was up at 3:40 a.m. from a self-inflicted red-vine high. He needed to go check on Lydia in the hospital and make sure she was alright. Maybe he could convince Melissa to slip him some bandages. He was 35% sure she wouldn’t even question him.

He was determinedly not thinking about the pungent copper/chlorine smell of what he was wiping from between his burning butt cheeks. (No way was he getting near his inner . . . bits. Nobody was going near them. Ever. He was most likely torn but meh, he would heal. Probably.)

Stiles gingerly pulled the now soiled towel away from his body and was immediately sorry he looked. His fingers spasmed as he dropped the obscene pink mess on the ground. _Yup, definitely torn somewhere_ , he confirmed faintly as his legs turned into nerveless noodles. He locked his arms on his grip on the Jeeps door in order not to break his nose on the cement.

He panted in short pained gusts as he struggled to collect himself. _Scott, Lydia, Derek_. He chanted in his head. _Scott, Lydia, Derek._ He needed to get out of the garage and figure out how to help them: his best friend, his unrequited love since 3 rd grade, and his sometime lycanthropic domestic abuse partner/mutual rescuer. They were instrumental in taking down Peter Hale; and the _Alpha_ needed to be _put down_.

There wasn’t going to be a next time. 


	2. Rule Breaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The washroom stalls of BH High School are filled with epithets dedicated to the damnation of one Adrian Harris. However there's one student in particular Harris has always had it out for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Tags:  
> NSFW, Non-con, Rape, Forced blow-job, drugged sex, underage, bad touch, violence, hurt Stiles, skewed timeline (I do what I waaant), non-con asphyxiation, humiliation, some tw scene changes to fit into storyline, image
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Archiwalna8 who inspired me to write the next installment in this series.

It was the end to another summer break. Stiles was a mixed bag of emotions as he shuffled from the parking lot towards the school. He didn’t see Scott’s dirt bike there yet, so he was probably meeting up with Allison in a clandestine pre-first day of school make-out session.

If anything his bitterness had time to fade over the two months of watching the Scott & Allison show from the sidelines. Well, he admitted, maybe not so much as fade, as give-up. What was the point of being angry at his best friend for not noticing there was something wrong, when he didn’t really _want_ anyone to find out. Stiles told himself he didn’t have the right to be bitter with Scott for being distracted by the whole werewolf drama, and the ensuing Romeo and Juliet bullshit.

Just—

How could Scott not notice _something_ was different about him?

Stiles felt like he was walking around with a post-it stuck to the back of his shirt saying, ‘Peter Hale wuz here.’ He feared it was especially geared towards werewolves. Or supposed to be. Just maybe not ‘besotted with puppy love’ Scott McCall, obviously.

He didn’t know how much of his summer he had spent covered up in way more than seasonally appropriate clothing, fearing someone would see evidence on his skin. Even after the bruises and cuts had faded, Stiles continued to huddle under hoodies and baggy pants.

There was a moment . . . back at the Hale house where the showdown with Peter took place; when Derek announced in his totally creepifying new voice that he was the Alpha that Stiles thought his secret was out. Derek had stared past Scott, past Allison, even past Chris Argent and locked eyes with Stiles. The new Alpha’s announcement had juddered down his spine, making a blend of fear and adrenaline spike through his already exhausted body. Stiles reacted to that intense red-eyed gaze with a surge of panic. Could he . . . could Derek smell what Peter did to him in the carpark? There was only so much he could . . . clean in a public bathroom stall. Oh fuck--!

Then before Stiles could have a messy nervous breakdown in front of his friends, Derek had turned and stalked off into the darkness.

He hasn’t seen the dark haired Alpha since.

He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not, and hates that he’s conflicted.

Now if they could just figure out how to find Lydia before she could hurt anyone. He and Scott had tracked her to the Ambulance attack last night but he guessed from the radio silence that there was no news on that front. Stiles resisted heaving a heavy sigh. Just another year at Beacon Hills High. What else was new? He felt guilty by the thought that at least he could be distracted by his own problems by throwing himself into the search for his long-time crush.

Stiles is broken from his memories by a hand slapping down on his shoulder. He does _not_ squeak in a totally embarrassing way.

It’s Scott, as the familiar crooked jaw revealed itself out of the corner of his eye.

Stiles ignored how he was frozen for a split second. He was sure his heart made some kind of interesting sputtering noise but it could be explained away by his surprise.

“Scott, buddy,” he welcomed his friend with a side hug.

“Hey man,” Scott says warmly. “Who do we have for first period?”

Stiles checked the schedule and grimaced, “Oh man. No one should have Harris first thing on a Monday morning. Judy in the office hates me.”

“Only because you keep blocking her sweet attempts at wooing your Dad,” Scott says without enough sympathy.

Hey, Judy was not good enough for his dad okay? She was alright, y’know for a secretary, or office assistant, or whatever. But just no. There did not need to be an insider to Stiles’ life both in law enforcement AND education. That called for strategic interference. Plus it clashed with the Stilinski-McCall long-term parental union plan, circa 2004.

Stiled huffed, having gone over this scenario with Scott before.

They took their pre-assigned seats in Harris’ classroom just in time for the Teacher in question to stride in, papers cradled in one arm. Stile’s had a _very_ bad feeling. Harris was in too good a mood for the first day back at school.

“I hope you have all done the required reading throughout the summer,” Harris began in that self-pleased manner that never boded well for anyone, “Your brains should be sufficiently boosted to handle your first pop-quiz of the season.”

There was a chorus of groans and cries of dismay as he began handing the quizzes out to the class.

Stiles wasn’t too worried, his lack of a social life this past summer break had done him _some_ favors apparently. He’d done all his reading for the year ahead out of pure boredom. So he leaned closer to Scott who was sitting in front of him. He needed to ask about Lydia.

“What if the next body part she steals is from someone still alive?” Stiles whispered urgently.

It’s a testament to their long friendship that Scott immediately followed Stiles’ train of thought. He turned to answer when from the front of the class, standing with his back to them, Mr. Harris must have felt his ‘Stilinski senses’ tingle.

“This is a pop-quiz Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Harris says pompously, standing straight as a pasty arrow in his black suit.

 _How does Harris know when to pick on me?_ Stiles groans, feeling his face drop. _It’s a supervillain power. Gotta be._

Harris was droning on, “If I hear your voice one more time I may be tempted to give you detention for the rest of your high school career.”

Stiles sat back heavily and scoffed, “Can you do that?” He feels his ears heat up at the not-so-muffled snickers of his classmates. Particularly that asshole Jackson. _Why_ did he have to sit right behind him?

Mr. Harris had an upturned twist to his mouth but it looked anything but pleasant, “Well. There it is again. Your voice. Triggering the only impulse I’ve ever had to strike a student, repeatedly and violently.”

Stiles mouth dropped open the way the teacher gave emphasis to his threat. Was no one hearing this?

“See you at 3:00 for detention.” Harris summed up.

Scott made to turn around, perhaps to share expressions of matching disbelief, but Mr. Harris quickly put an end to his show of solidarity,

“You too Mr. McCall?”

Scott quickly twisted back around, “No sir.”

So much for solidarity, Stiles sighed to himself.

 

The rest of the day was mind-numbingly normal and soon enough Stiles found himself sitting in the Chemistry lab, alone with Mr. Harris.

The hour has already dragged agonizingly by. Stiles finished his few assignments pretty quickly and was left to literally twiddle his thumbs for the rest of the time. Harris didn’t even instruct him to clean, or organize books or anything. For someone with ADHD, sitting for long periods of time with nothing to do was pure torture. Harris, the smug fucker, knew it too.

Mr. Harris, who sat at the front, meticulously grading papers. Probably today’s pop-quizzes thought Stile’s resignedly. From the occasional amused huff coming from that direction, his peers hadn’t been as thorough on the assigned summer reading. He’d feel bad for them except he still remembered their amused titters at his expense. _Not so funny now, bitches_.

If he was a werewolf, Stiles thought agitatedly drumming his pencil on the back of his textbook, he would probably be able to hear every single person as they left the building. Literally everyone. It would probably be worse than watching the seconds tick by on the outdated clock over Harris’ stupid head. Maybe. Probably.

Stiles propped his cheek on his palm, unimpressed.

He couldn’t even fool around on his phone. It was the first thing Harris had done when he had walked into detention, he’d held out his hand for the phone with a knowing smirk. Stile’s had just rolled his eyes and slapped it in his palm, biting back a snide comment. Just barely.

He didn’t know what he’d ever done to make the teacher single him out so rigorously. He was the same level of annoying to all the teachers, he prided himself on being an equal opportunity annoyer. There was just something about Harris. Like the man had a sixth sense for when Stiles was up to the _slightest_ bit of _anything_ he could punish. Which was blatantly unfair, because that was like a _lot_.

Stiles stared at the clock, willing it to go faster with his brain. His pulse was starting to pick up, almost like an approaching panic attack. Being stuck in a room for an hour like this was torture when he could be out there helping Scott find Lydia—

The closer it got to four o’clock the tighter wound he became. He practically vibrated in his seat, visualizing the sound wave he would make on his way out the door.

His body jolted along with the minute hand as it clicked into the top of the hour slot. Stiles leapt to his feet with a burst of exhilaration. _Finally!_ He exulted. He swept his pile of text books and his water bottle into the crook of his arm in one move and lunged for the doorway.

“ **Sit**.” Harris’ cold authoritarian voice brought him to a flailing stop.

“But it’s been an hour!” Stiles gesticulated wildly at the clock.

Maddeningly, Harris didn’t even look up from his desk. “My detention is an hour and a half.”

Stiles gaped at this preposterousness, “You can’t do that!”

At his protest, Harris looked up. There was a gleam in his beady pale eyes that indicated he was enjoying Stiles’ misery with a decided lack of professional detachment. Mr. Harris clasped his hands over his papers with a little smirk, “Oh, but I can. You see . . . Stiles . . . since your father was so judicious in his dealings with me I’ve decided to make you my personal project for the rest of the semester.”

Stiles eyes narrowed, he refused to admit how the man’s words made his stomach twist with a sinking feeling of dismay. He refused to be cowed under Mr. Harris’ self-satisfied gaze.

“You are going to benefit from all of the best that strict discipline has to offer,” Harris finished smugly. “Now.” Here his voice hardened. “Sit down before I decide to keep you here all night.”

Stiles’ fingers tightened in the straps of his backpack. Was this really happening? He couldn’t even S.O.S. for help since Harris, the dick, had his phone. He exhaled in frustration. His dad wouldn’t even know he was missing because he was on a back shift. Fucking A.

“Can I at least run to the washroom? I wasn’t exactly expecting to hold it for two hours,” Stiles huffed.

“The longer you take, the longer we stay here,” Mr. Harris said lightly, as he waved Stiles towards the door in permission.

Stiles bit down on his tongue and shook his head in disbelief at the jerk.

 

When Stiles got back from the washroom, he sat down heavily in his chair in a wide-legged sprawl. He stared up at the ceiling in resignation. He couldn’t bear to look at the clock for another indeterminate amount of time. Reaching blindly for his water bottle, he unscrewed the top with the fingers of one hand and brought it to his lips. He had a half a bottle left. Plus, he was getting hungry. God, this was _torture_ …

For lack of anything better to do, Stiles counted tiles on the ceiling, then holes _in_ the tiles, then the pencils wedged in the ceiling from previously bored detention-goers.

Between this delightful pass-time, and the rhythmic scratching of Harris’ pen, Stiles didn’t notice when his blinking grew longer and longer between each interval. Until everything slid sideways into darkness.

 

When he woke up, Stiles was so confused by everything his body was telling him that he just _shut down_ until his brain could reboot.

He rolled his head to one side. Was he laying over the chemistry table? Stiles blinked owlishly at the sight of the gas nozzles to his right. Yup, chemistry table. Check.

 _Why_ was he laying over the chemistry table?

He tried to focus his uncooperative eyes.

In only his underwear?

It was hard to lift his head to confirm this but he managed it with a bit of a drunken head bob. Those were his Captain America briefs alright. Where did the rest of his clothes go? Was he the victim of a prank? Stiles made a little noise, a pathetic sounding whimper. Stupid Jackson. It had to be Jackson.

Maybe he’d been drinking--? That would explain why the room was spinning so violently.

Stiles tried to lift his arm up to rub his eyes but his arm fully refused to cooperate. He made a questioning noise at the back of his throat. Nothing was making sense. He was so confused—

“Ah, I see you’re finally awake,” a voice startled him.

The fine hairs all over Stiles’ body prickled with unease. _Harris?_

His eyes darted in the direction of the voice and saw that it was indeed his Chemistry teacher. Stile’s brow furrowed in his confusion. “What’s happening?” He meant to say. It came out more like, “S’appning?”

Even his mouth was fumbly.

Harris tilted his head as he examined the sight before him, “I’ve decided that regular disciplinary methods are wasted on a delinquent of your caliber, Mr. Stilinski. We’re going to try a more, _invasive_ approach.”

Stiles was struggling to clear the fog in his head. There was a lassitude, an apathy on his limbs that wasn’t natural. He knew he shouldn’t be half-naked in front of this teacher but try as he might he couldn’t muster more than a twitch of his fingers.

“Wh—td, eeu giv—,” Stiles slurred, his face scrunched up in frustration.

Harris trailed his fingers down the center of Stile’s bared chest, teasing the faint trail of hair that began under his belly button. Stiles let out a kicked noise, his eyes pupils trying to dilate with fear but already blown wide from another source. “What did I give you?” His teacher guessed. His lips twitched before he leaned closer, “I’ll give you a little lesson. Never let a Chemistry teacher get _bored_ , Stiles. They have the tools to make all sorts of interesting compounds. For example, benzodiazepine, do you know what that is?”

The breath choked in his throat. Rohypnol. He’d been _roofied._

Satisfied that Stiles understood, Harris leaned back. “Don’t get used to the sensation, I prefer to discipline you without the aid but for the first time,” here he pinched a nipple _hard_ and Stiles eyes watered, “I need to show you your place.”

Oh god, this sounded . . . this sounded bad. Really bad. Harris was fucking crazy.

Stiles tried to track him as his teacher walked slowly around the table. His heart rabbited against his ribcage in an attempt to leap free, he could almost hear the roar of his pulse in his ears.

Where was Scott? He needed his best friend to save him, like, right _now_. He couldn’t do this, it was just like Peter all over again.

His racing thoughts disappeared with the distinctive sound of a metal rasp. That was a zipper. Stiles realized numbly. Harris was undoing his zipper—

The presence standing by his head was expectant. Stiles refused to look. He couldn’t.

“Come now, Mr. Stilinski,” Harris cooed, “I’ve got something better than a highlighter to keep your mouth occupied.”

That was it. He was going to vomit.

Stiles wished fervently he had control of his stomach because he would love to throw up all over Harris for that. Fucking sicko.

Harris made a tching sound and placed his hands under Stiles’ unresisting shoulders. One heave later and the edge of the table was under his neck. He had no choice but to view the room from upside down as his head hung limply over the side. Stiles saw the lurching sight of Harris’ undone fly before he screwed his eyes shut tightly.

“Nguh--!” Stiles protested shakily.

“You are such a mouthy little shit, you know that?” Harris sneered. He ran his thumb over Stiles quivering mouth. “It’s a good thing I know exactly what to do to shut you up.” He pressed both of his thumbs into the corners of Stiles’ mouth until he’d pried it open. “I shouldn’t have to tell you what will happen if you use your teeth.” His voice grew a little shaky as he viewed the wet pink slip of Stiles’ tongue.

Stiles had no idea actually, but it wasn’t as though he had any control over his body right now. He felt the hot slip of tears burn down his temples.

Through the blur of tears, Stiles saw Harris release his hard cock from his pants. In the brief flash before he squeezed his eyes shut again he couldn’t help but see its size. It didn’t appear as thick as Stile’s own, but it had an imposing length to it that made Stile’s gulp back a sob.

He heard, rather than saw, Harris work his hand over his dick a few strokes before Stile’s felt the weight of it nudging at his lips. One hand kept Stiles’ jaw locked open, while the other fed the cock into his mouth.

Stiles wanted to spit it out. He wanted to choke. The bitter taste of Harris on his tongue was abhorrent, vile.  

He gagged immediately, tried to close his mouth but Harris’ thumb was in the way. Stiles couldn’t push him off, couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t fucking breathe . . .

“That’s it,” he heard Harris sigh, “just the way I like you.” He thrust a little deeper into Stiles mouth, the tip of his cock nudging the back of his throat. “Speechless.”

Stiles’ eyes were streaming with tears, his throat helplessly constricting as he gagged against the unwanted protrusion. He was going to suffocate.

As if reading his mind, Harris offered, “Breathe through your nose Stiles. If you pass out I’ll start over in your ass.”

He wasn’t immediately successful. Between his panic and the nightmarish reality of Harris’ hairy balls swinging his face, Stiles wasn’t sure it was worth struggling for. It was too bad that once the suggestion was made, it seemed his body was desperate to follow any suggestion that resulted in oxygen.

Now that he had him where he wanted, Harris placed one hand over Stile’s exposed throat, gripping the long expanse with his blue-tinged fingers. With the other he picked up a wooden ruler.

“Your lesson today is a bit time sensitive,” Harris huffed out, “so I don’t have the time I’d like to devote to this. However, I’d like you to remember that from now on, when you are in my class you will pay me the utmost respect. Do you understand?”

How was he expected to respond? Stiles wondered in humiliated disbelief.

He wasn’t prepared for the first crack of the ruler against his chest. Stiles jolted, more from surprise than pain. There was a second delay before the sizzling pain struck his nipple and he screamed around the cock in his mouth.

Stiles barely noticed anything past the pain for a moment, and that’s exactly what Harris was waiting for. While Stiles was distracted, Harris arched his hips and leaned his weight forward so that his cock pushed past the spongy back of Stile’s mouth and slid down the clutching grip of his throat.

Stiles almost passed out despite his best intentions.

“Oh fuck,” Harris groaned, helplessly sagging into the blissful sensation. His sharp hips jabbed forward as he chased the feeling. He pulled back after a minute, just to savor the debauched look on his student’s face.

Stile’s gasped and coughed as soon as his throat was free, his eyes were streaming, his lips swollen and wet with spit and Harris’ precome. “St—op” He hiccoughed, his voice raw from the abuse.

Harris’ laugh was pitiless as he lined up once more. “Maybe I should take a picture, show it to your father. What do you think, Stiles?”

Stiles hated the way Harris said his name, like an oily caress. He could only glare wetly in return.

“Open up.”

It was humiliating how easy it was for Harris to pry open his mouth again and thrust back in. Stiles could feel the flush of shame spreading down his face and chest like a sunburn.

From the angle he was laying, it was impossible to see what Harris was up to from above, so he wasn’t prepared for another slap of the ruler, this time on the opposite nipple. Stiles hollered, again getting forcefully deep-throated.

This became a pattern. Stiles lost count of how many times he was struck with the ruler. He hung to consciousness by a wavering thread, his vision spotted heavily with grey and black; smears that multiplied the longer Harris hammered his cock into his face.

He barely recognized the signs of Harris getting close to the edge when his hips stuttered.

 _Oh god,_ Stiles whispered to himself, _please pull out_.

The fingers at his throat, flexed and Harris groaned like he was dying. Stiles didn’t recognize the sensation of warmth in his throat until the bitterness hit his tongue and he gagged once more, realizing with a sense of deep horror what had happened. He heaved as Harris slowly withdrew his still spurting member, a final splash of come hit him on the tip of his nose and Stiles closed his eyes in reflex.

Harris’ harsh breathing continued for a minute, and then Stiles heard him zip his pants back up.

“I knew you had cocksucking lips for a reason, Stilinski.” Harris commented.

Stiles couldn’t look at him. He ground his teeth together until his molars ached.

“I didn’t expect to be glad you’re big mouth got you detention for the rest of the school year,” Harris surmised, “but I’m glad we came to an understanding.”

His footsteps began to walk away.

They paused at the threshold of the doorway.

“Oh, by the way, the drug should wear off in a half hour or so. There will probably be side effects. Nothing too alarming.” With that, Harris left Stiles in the lab, nearly naked, paralyzed and with his face streaked with come.

 

When John Stilinski got home the next morning he was surprised to find that his son wasn’t downstairs putting his lunch together for school. Usually around this time he was spinning around the kitchen in his usual uncoordinated coordinated whirlwind of activity.

“Stiles?” He called out.

He frowned when there was no reply. Nothing except for what sounded like a cough from upstairs.

John climbed the stairs and knocked at his son’s bedroom door. “Stiles? You okay in there?”

There was the faint sound of blankets shifting so he pushed open the door.

He was surprised to Stiles still in bed, huddled in a cocoon of blankets.

“Hey dad,” came a voice that the Sheriff would not have recognized as his own flesh and blood had he not been staring straight at his face. It sounded like Stiles had gargled razors. Then chased it down with a fireball.

“Jeezus,” John swore, “What happened to you?”

He missed his son’s flinch.

The pile of blankets shrugged. “Sick,” it rasped.

The Sheriff leaned forward and felt his son’s forehead, it was clammy but he noticed the way Stiles was shivering. Chills? He frowned. “You’re staying home. Is there anything I can get you?”

It looked like Stile’s was thinking, “Water,” he mouthed.

God, his kid looked like death warmed over. His eyes were red rimmed and swollen. He was pale. John hoped he didn’t catch what he had, they were too busy at the station for him to miss any time. John nodded. “Okay. I’ll get you some water and then you get some rest. I’ll call the school and you can get Scott to bring over your homework.”

Stiles nodded, his eyes shadowed.

When he was alone in the room once more, Stiles pulled the blankets tighter around him and stared blankly at the opposite wall.


	3. Tisiphone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry Stiles!! OMG I don't know where my brain comes up with this stuff! Please don't read if you're not comfortable with squicky stuff. Really. A-void.
> 
> This episode in Teen Wolf was my favorite 2x10 Fury. Soo much going on so I had to do my version of it. I have adopted most of the dialogue from the episode so yes, that is not mine--however the writing, description, some of the plot line, that IS all mine. Plus, you know, the pervy stuff--that's all moi. I should be worried...
> 
> Holy goddess this is a long chapter. Like, loooooong. And the bawn-chicka doesn't happen till the end. So if you want to skip the plotty goodness (which--ugh, you cretin) and get to the nasty smut, it's at the end.

It was Spring Break and what was Stiles doing? Sitting in his room defacing old yearbooks trying to figure out the kanima master’s motive. He didn’t feel any of the relief or freedom that a break from school normally would have given him. Instead he felt the seconds ticking by as they got closer to tonight’s full moon.

He had nothing to complain about in comparison to Derek’s new puppies, what with going through their first full moon together. He was sure that group bonding would be _hair-raising_ , pun intended. (Really, what was Derek thinking, turning three beta’s at the same time--?!) In comparison, his buddy Scott was confident of his abilities, despite Stiles’ reminders of past transgressions so he was going to attempt the full moon unrestrained. Stiles had werewolf containment contingency plans in case things went horribly wrong, as they were wont to do.

It wasn’t like obsessing over the kanima murders were all Stiles was doing tonight. He was going with Scott to Lydia’s birthday party later; but he couldn’t manage to shake the ominous feeling that something bad was about to happen.

And really, what was his basis for comparison for ‘bad’ these days anyway’? His best friend had tried a handful of times to kill him. He’d been kidnapped by a psychotic werewolf on a revenge bender; was made to be said crazy-wolf’s bitch and no one noticed. He’d been an accomplice to homicide ( _alphacide?_ ) via Molotov cocktail. Gave up his first ever lacrosse game to help Derek rescue his first beta from the Argents. Was held at needlepoint by a hunter disguised as one of his dad’s deputies in order to save Isaac who wolfed out and tried to eat him immediately after. He lied to his dad. Witnessed his mechanic get squished under his jeep by the kanima; lied _again_ to his dad in order to save everyone’s ungrateful werewolf-y ass. Got shot down by his dad outside the jungle about possibly being gay, which okay, had been unexpectedly disappointing for reasons he wasn’t going to examine right now; saving Jackson’s unworthy lizard ass of all things! Got caught ‘kidnapping’ said irritating jock and was served with a restraining order. Was responsible for getting his dad suspended from his job. Oh, and the kicker? He was being molested on a regular basis by his chemistry teacher who was also currently the main suspect in the murder investigation Stiles was sticking his nose into. Again, nobody noticed a thing.

So yeah, down time was really not an option. Giving his brain time to think was detrimental for his continued mental health.

Stiles was so deep in thought he didn’t notice his dad walk by his open door.

“Whatcha doing?” John asked as he passed.

Stiles didn’t even pause as he flipped through the 2006 Beacon Hills yearbook, “Homework,” he answered shortly. What? It was a kind of homework. It was school related even.

And he almost got away with his answer too. The sheriff continued past his doorway before pausing and lurching back a step, “Its spring break.” He said in that tone of voice. The tone of voice Stiles often heard saying his name, _Stiles_. The ‘you’re bullshitting me again son’ voice. 

It wasn’t enough to shame Stiles into stopping. Not much was anymore.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Okay well, that was a somewhat fond sounding tone. Not all was lost.

Stiles flipped another page, scanning the faces. “Oh, I’m just satisfying my own curiosity,” he said blithely.

His dad reached across him and flipped the book shut. Stiles grimaced at being shut down.

“We brought Harris in this morning for questioning,” John realized his wording and rephrased, “They brought him in.”

Stiles recognized that his dad was voluntarily sharing information and he wasn’t about to let the opportunity go to waste, “And?” he urged, sitting at attention. There was a sick fluttering in his stomach. What if they found something in Harris’ classroom? Something that would reveal what he was doing with Stiles--? _Oh god--!_ He broke out in a cold sweat at the thought.

“And they’re working on a warrant to arrest him for the murders,” John admitted.

Relief, disappointment and resignation warred for dominance of Stiles’ emotion. Outwardly he only looked as though he was concerned with the news of Harris’ arrest. “What, all of them?” He asked.

“Enough of them,” Sheriff confirmed.

“With what proof?” Stiles demanded. As much as the thought of Harris behind bars filled him with what had the potential to be _good feels_ , he couldn’t trust it. He knew that an arrest was a tenuous stage in a volley of tenuous stages.

“You remember the couple at the trailer? Tire tracks nearby match Harris’ car.”

Yeah, he knew it. “W—That’s not enough!” He huffed, grabbing for the yearbook again.

The Sherriff flipped it closed once more, Stiles huffed out his cheeks in frustration.

“The same car was seen outside the hospital where the pregnant wife was killed. It’s got some bumper sticker on it, a quote from Einstein.”

John could see the something like recognition light up on his son’s face.

“Wait, what quote?” Stiles asked.

“Something about imagination and knowledge.”

Stiles mouth dropped open and his eyes went far away, “Imagination is more important than knowledge, yeah. I saw the same car parked outside the rave.”

John brushed away the almost-goosebumps at the distant expression on Stiles’ face. “That means you’re a witness. You’re gonna have to give a statement.”

 _Always a cop, eh dad?_ Stiles’ thought was a bit bittersweet. But then his brain was catching up with the facts from the murders and from the latest scene at the rave. Something was niggling at him. “But, what about the concert promoter, Kara? She wasn’t in Harris’ class, right? I mean, what does Mr. Lahey have to do with Harris?” The clues weren’t adding up.

“It doesn’t matter. The tire tracks put Harris at the site of three murders. That’s damning evidence.” John said convincingly.

Stiles wanted to believe his dad. But if the evidence didn’t stick, then it was literally his ass on the line. If Harris was pissed at his dad for questioning him about the Hale fire, enough to—then what was he going to do to Stiles if his dad tried unsuccessfully to arrest him for murder? He tasted bile.

He pulled away from his dad with a little jerk, “No, it’s not enough!” Once more he flipped open the book.

His dad straightened up, “I—I thought you hated this guy?!” He sounded confused. Understandably so, Stiles had spent sophomore year ranting up a storm about the injustice of Harris’ keen eye for delinquency (not his words).

Stiles couldn’t look his dad in the face, “I don’t hate him, all right? He hates me.” He wanted to say, _I’m fucking terrified all the time. He watches me, Dad. Even when his eyes aren’t on me, somehow he knows stuff about me and I don’t know what to do._ _He makes me do things_ —but he couldn’t. He _couldn’t._ Stiles kept his head down, hoping the wetness in his eyes would go unnoticed. “And, you know, if he killed them all, then yeah, lock the psycho up. But there’s something missing. There’s gotta be something missing.”

But even his Dad was starting to notice how agitated Stiles was getting, “Hey.” He clapped a hand on Stiles’ shoulder until he met his eyes. His tone gentled, “Hey. You don’t have to solve this for me.”

He really did. Except his dad didn’t realize it wasn’t all because of him.

“I have to do something,” Stiles said, his eyes shifting away.

John looked down at the page Stiles had stopped on and found his eyes drawn to one of the pictures there. His eyes widened.

Stiles picked up on his dad’s intense scrutiny and looked up in question, “What?”

“Look at the swim team,” his dad said, as though needing confirmation from another pair of eyes.

Stiles practically gave himself whiplash looking down at the page. The murder victims . . . they were all there. On the swim team. Except for,

“Dad, look at the coach.” Stiles looked up grimly. That was it. That was the piece that didn’t make sense. “It’s Isaac’s dad.”

 

 

So that bad feeling he’d been having? When was he ever going to learn that just because he wasn’t a werewolf didn’t mean that he was exempt from Beacon Hills full moon shenanigans? Specifically shenanigans that involved 17 year old young woman of questionable sanity spiking the punch at their own birthday party. Stiles was beginning to question his taste in his future spouse.

God. He wasn’t even going to _think_ about the hallucination he’d had. Even the slightest memory of his dad in his funeral suit with the whiskey bottle hanging loosely from his grip was enough to send sharp fingers of self-hatred and fear down his spine. Thank god for Danielle. Even though he still had a chlorinated burn at the back of his nostrils from the way she dunked his wolfsbane drunk head in Lydia’s pool. His first instinct had been to come up swinging, but her quick thinking had saved him a lot of heartache. He was gonna share his Reece’s with her next lunch as a thank-you.

At least they knew who the kanima master was now. Stiles got ALL the points for guessing it was Matt Daehler, the fucking creep. He didn’t have the time to rub it in Scott’s face, they had to get to his house and convince his dad. Later though. Later he was _so_ going to lord it over Scott that he should have listened.

Stiles was relieved to find his dad still awake when he and Scott reached his house. They stumbled into the living room and it was obvious from their urgency that something had occurred.

The Sheriff looked up from where he was watching the game. “Boys. You’re—surprisingly on time.” His eyebrow arched over the dark rim of his reading glasses. “What’s up?”

Stiles looked at Scott and vice versa. “We know who the murderer is,” Stiles blurted with his usual aplomb.

 

The Sheriff bemusedly followed the two boys up to Stile’s bedroom where his son pulled his own yearbook out and flopped it open. He pointed at a profile already circled emphatically in red marker.

“So this kid’s the real killer?” John tried to mask his doubt from his son.

Stiles sat back in his chair. “Yeah.”

“No,” The Sheriff crossed his arms.

Gawking at his dad in disbelief at how quickly they were dismissed, Stiles snapped back, “Yes!”

“No!” John said more firmly.

Stiles threw himself out of his chair, “Dad, come on! Everybody knows that the police look for ways to connect victims in a murder, okay? So all he had to do is, like, look through their transcripts and figure out which class they all had in common.” He looked back at Scott as if to say, _right?!_

Still unconvinced, John had his thinking scowl on. “Yeah, except for the fact that the rave promoter Kara wasn't in Harris's class.”

Throwing up his hand in exasperation Stiles couldn’t help throwing a little attitude, “All right, okay, you're right, sorry. Then I guess they dropped the charges against him?” He raised his eyebrows.

Oh. His dad _hated_ it when he made a point (while being sassy). He could literally see the annoyed nostril flare. “No, you know what?” Here came the pointy finger. Ah the good old pointy finger. “They're not dropping the charges. But that doesn't prove anything.”

 _How does that not prove--!!_ Stiles flailed in place with frustration.

“Scott. Do you believe this?” John asked, looking right past his son to the secret werewolf in the room.

 _Oh._ Stiles’ stomach dropped to his feet in disappointment. _There it was._ He gave a little groan and flail at the usual ‘let’s get an opinion from the good son’ that was going on. What was he expecting?

Scott was giving the Sheriff his earnest face. It never failed. In that moment, Stiles hated his life.

“It’s really hard to explain how we know this, but you just gotta trust us. We know it’s Matt.” Scott said sincerely.

“Yeah, he took Harris’ car, okay? Look, he knew that if a cop found tire tracks at one of the murders and that if enough of the victims were in Harris’ class, that they’d arrest him--!” Stiles laid it all out.

“All right, fine,” the Sheriff grumbled, “I’ll allow the remote possibility—”

 _Yes!_ Scott and Stiles shared a relieved look.

“—but give me a motive. I mean, why would this kid want most of the 2006 swim team and its coach dead?”

“Isn’t it obvious?!” Stiles threw out his arms dramatically, “Our swim team sucks! They haven’t won in, like, six years--!” His dad raised his eyes to the ceiling, silently appealing for help. “Alright we don’t have a motive yet,” Stiles conceded, “I mean, come on--! Does Harris?”

The Sheriff looked searchingly at the boys, “What do you want me to do?”

Stiles blew out a breath of relief while Scott looked like he wasn’t expecting the conversation to go in their favor but he was quick to respond, “We need to look at the evidence.”

John looked extremely dubious of their plan, “Yeah that would be in the station. Where I no longer work,” he drawled bitterly.

“Trust me, they’ll let you in.” Stiles assured his dad.

Eyebrows rose right up to his father’s receding hairline. “Trust _you?!_ ” John jabbed his fingers towards Stiles’ face incredulously.

Stiles’ mouth snapped shut. This was uncomfortably like his hallucination. How much of his dad’s resentment was real and how much of it was Stiles’ low self-esteem? Did he really want to know? The way his dad seemed reluctant to believe _him_ while looking to Scott for confirmation just made the slow moving poison under his ribs spread a little faster.

Even though he hated having to do it, Stiles said the words he knew would get the results they needed. He cautiously drew his dad’s attention to the other person standing behind him. “Trust—trust Scott?” He said hopefully.

And then his dad said the words that made something fragile break inside Stiles. The something he had been holding out for; waiting all this time for some sign of hope, for rescue. A sign that he wasn’t all alone in the darkness. With Peter. With Harris.

The fingers accusingly jabbing in his face changed trajectory. They pointed now to Scott. “Scott I trust,” His dad said while looking Stiles straight in the eye.

Stiles stood unnaturally still, unnoticed, while his father muttered, “Let’s go then, I’ll get my keys.”

He wasn’t sure if he moved he wouldn’t fall to pieces were he stood.

 

Derek wasn’t sure where he was. His memory seemed fragmented. He remembered being with Issac; who was a surprising oasis of calm while Erica and Boyd went moon crazy in the train car behind him. There was a lurching sense of confusion. A feeling of not-right. Lydia’s colder-than-normal face. Purple powder. Weakness. Peter.

Now he was somewhere . . . between.

He couldn’t explain it any other way. Derek knew he wasn’t dreaming, and he wasn’t awake. He was just somewhere, waiting.

He couldn’t call to his Pack. His voice, his howls were swallowed by the echoing white that surrounded him.

It felt vaguely familiar, this white place. He couldn’t remember a time where he would have needed a place like this but somehow he knew he’d been here before. This wasn’t the first time he needed this . . . limbo.

He was tempted to rest here but there remained a niggling urge to warn . . . someone.

After a while of feeling suspended, and not much else, Derek became aware of a voice coming as though from a great distance. It was distorted. He swung his head around, trying to determine which direction it was coming from. It sounded like someone was calling his name--? It was a man’s voice.

“D—rk? Can you hear me? Derek? Can you hear me? I need you to answer me, Derek--”

Derek wanted to growl. How was he supposed to answer? The voice was overlapping, stretching and echoing.

“Derek! We don’t have much time!”

Now there was another sound. A piercing, high-pitched noise that joined in with the annoying person calling his name. It hurt Derek’s ears. He slapped his hands over his ears to make IT STOP!!

Whatever it was shocked him out of his fugue state. Derek woke up breathing hard, staring up at the burnt black rafters of his family’s house. He instantly took in his surroundings, Deaton was crouching over him, looking inscrutable.

“That sound,” Derek panted, trying to sit up and finding himself alarmingly weak, “what was it?”

Deaton held up a dog whistle with a smug grin.

 _Fucking asshole_. Derek wanted to choke him with it. He huffed in dismissal and rolled to his feet unwilling to appear vulnerable to the older man. However as soon as he was vertical he found himself stumbling backwards, his legs folding unsteadily underneath him.

Deaton was there to catch him. As loathe as Derek was to admit, it seemed whatever Peter had done to reanimate himself had drained him of almost everything.

“You’re going to be weak for several hours,” Deaton imparted seriously.

Carefully the vet released his hold as Derek seemed to wobble a little less unsteadily. Derek’s eyes were drawn down to his punctured arm in delayed shock.

_Peter exploding up out of the floor._

“It actually happened--” Derek said disbelievingly.

“Don’t worry, you’re still an Alpha,” Deaton informed him. Derek wanted to huff at him. As if that was the biggest of his worries with his murderous Uncle bringing himself back to life. But then the suspicious doc continued with his insult, “But as usual, not a particularly competent one.”

Derek chose to ignore the comment. He knew he wasn’t about to win Alpha of the Year. How could he, with his mother and Laura to live up to? He was just trying to survive. Deaton’s understanding in the matter was irrelevant. “Where is he?” He demanded. It was pretty clear who he was asking after.

“I wish I could tell you,” came the maddening response.

Derek stepped forward threateningly, “Then how ‘bout you tell me what you’re doing here, and why you’re helping me?”

He was unprepared for the answer.

“Helping your family actually used to be a pretty important part of my life,” Deaton said seriously, “Helping _you_ was a promise I made to your mother.”

His mother—

Derek stepped back, his threatening pose disappearing. “You’re the one my sister talked about. She said you’re a—kind of advisor?” He sounded breathless. Almost like the pre-fire Derek for a moment.

“She was right. And I have some advice that you need to listen to very closely right now.” Deaton took care to enunciate clearly so as not to be misunderstood, “What Peter managed to do doesn’t come without a price. He’ll be physically weak, so he’ll rely on the strength of his intelligence, his cunning.”

The words seemed to be getting through Derek’s Alpha bluster. He looked vulnerable as he looked between Deaton and the hole in the floor where he laid Peter to rest.

“He’s gonna come at you, Derek. He’ll try to twist his way inside your head, preying on your insecurities. He’ll tell you that he’s the only way you can stop Gerard. Do not. Trust. Him.”

At this Derek smirked. “I don’t trust anyone,” he said contemptuously in his soft voice.

Deaton looked both regretful and tired of his shit. “I know. If you did, you might be the Alpha you like to think you are. And unfortunately the one person you should trust doesn’t trust you at all.”

“Scott,” Derek breathed.

Deaton didn’t bother correcting him. It wasn’t his place. However it tied in with his message, “He’s with Stilinski right now. You need to find him, you need to find him as fast as you can. I’ve known Gerard for a long time. He always has a plan. Something tells me—it’s going exactly the way he wants it to.”

 

The night had been so full of emotional highs and lows Stiles felt like a snapped rubber band. Currently he was gratefully riding another high. It had felt like pulling vibranium claws but he and Scott were finally getting somewhere with his dad. Clues were finally falling into place. They had the yearbook, the hospital cameras, the receipts, and Melissa’s eyewitness account. They were _thisclose_ to getting a warrant for creepy-face Matt!

Slinging himself around the corner in his enthusiasm to get to the front desk and tell Tara about Melissa dropping by, Stiles didn’t notice the out-of-place gamey smell in the air. Not at first. He was more taken aback by the fact that the front desk was unmanned. _That’s not right_ , was his first thought. _That’s against protocol._

“Hello?” Stiles called out, expecting Deputy Graham to pop out at him just around a corner or something. He knew it wasn’t like her to dismiss station rules. His head swung around, searching.

That was, until he saw her.

Tara.

On the floor behind the front desk in a pool of blood was the deputy Stiles was looking for. The one who only a short time ago had leveled his dad with her no-nonsense face before waving them out back. A face Stiles was used to having leveled at _him_. The face that was staring blankly at a space underneath the desk, unseeing.

Even while his chest began to constrict with the first signs of a panic attack his brain was rapidly identifying clues. Those razor sharp slices that made shreds of Tara’s chest? Those were made by kanima claws. The _kanima_ was here. _Shit!_ Stiles’ eyes also flickered past the empty gun holster on Tara’s hip. It was empty? _Where’s her . . ._

 _Gun_ —

Stiles turned around in his visual sweep for the missing firearm and straightened right into the barrel Matt held level with his face.

Stiles stopped breathing.

Matt shrugged as if to say, _see what you made me do?_ His eyes gleamed wetly with some dark emotion. He flicked the gun towards the Sheriff’s office and Stiles swallowed hard. He had no choice.

 

Scott slid his phone into his pocket, “She’s on her way here,” he told the Sheriff. Expecting some kind of reaction from his long-time father figure; a nod, a noise, or a continuation of their plan, Scott raised his eyebrows as the Sheriff looked past him with an unidentified expression on his face. “Sheriff?” He swung his head around as his senses picked up the sharp smell of Stiles’ fear.

Matt Daehler followed Stiles into the room. He shoved Stiles roughly with a gun to the shoulder blade and Stiles stumbled over to where Scott stood.

Everyone in the room stood rigid with wariness.

John slowly raised his hands to show he wasn’t a threat. “Matt--”

Matt swung his head in the Sheriff’s direction, a mocking smile on his face. Stiles’ hands curled into fists, thinking of Tara out there, dead, and what, this fucker was amused--?

“It’s Matt, right? Matt, whatever’s going on. I guarantee you there’s a solution that doesn’t involve a gun.” John said calmly.

“You know, it’s funny you say that, because I don’t think you’re aware just how right you are.” Matt said sarcastically.

His words were obviously aimed for the other two in the room. Stiles felt his stomach drop to his feet. Scott barely shuffled from foot to foot but it was enough to show his unease.

“I know you don’t want to hurt people--,” the Sheriff tried.

Matt cut him off, “Actually, I wanna hurt a _lot_ of people. You three weren’t on my list, but I could be persuaded. And one way is to try dialing somebody on your cellphone, like McCall is doing--”

Scott’s hand jumped out of his pocket guiltily. Stiles swung around to look as his best friend who closed his eyes in remorse. He was impressed with Scott for coming up with the idea and wished he had of thought of it earlier.

“That—that could definitely get someone hurt.” Matt gestured meaningfully with the hand holding the gun towards the desk. “Everyone.” When the three hesitated, Matt’s soft mocking voice disappeared and his visage harshened, “NOW!” he barked.

Stiles waited stubbornly until his dad coaxed them with a “C’mon.” He shot Matt a glare, eyeing the distance between himself and the gun.

Matt didn’t miss it, his lips ticking upwards in a sneer. “Drunk tank, you first.”

He made Stiles cuff his dad to the restraint on the wall, not falling for the sneaky way Stiles kept the cuffs loose around his dad’s wrists. It had to be killing his dad to watch an armed murder suspect walk away with the two of them but the cold blue eyes Matt watched them with didn’t miss a thing and he obviously knew that getting the experienced adult out of the room was the first order of business.

As they were walking away from the drunk tank, they passed the hallway going down to the holding cells (where Isaac had been held—Stiles remembered reluctantly) Scott stopped abruptly and sucked in a horrified breath. Stiles followed his shocked gaze.

There at the end of the hallway lay three slain officers. Blood and viscera smeared the floor and walls.

“What, are you going to kill everyone in here?” Scott blurted out in disbelief. Stiles staggered back against the ‘Wanted’ poster wall in a short-lived attempt to escape the gruesome sight.

Matt looked on the scene almost in pride. He huffed at Scott’s question. “No, that’s what Jackson’s for. I just think about killing them and he does it.”

They were herded back into Stiles’ dad’s office where Matt wasted no time instructing them to shred his evidence file.

Stiles swallowed back the very bitter taste of defeat as he slowly reached for the paperwork spilling out on his father’s desk while Scott moved behind him to grab the rest of the file. The sound of the shredder ripping into the first pages made his shoulders hunch, although he tried not to be obvious about it. Matt was already way too cocky.

If his dad wasn’t isolated in the drunk tank with Jacks—no, the kanima, on the loose, Stiles would probably have done something reckless by now. But all it would take would be just a _thought_ from Matt, and the kanima would make the Sheriff another pulpy smear. Stile’s breath shortened at the mental image.

Scott shot Stiles a look, just tightened his lips, to remind him that he wasn’t alone but it didn’t do much to ease his fears.

The file on the computer screen finished deleting—what Stiles didn’t mention of course was how he’d copied the files with just a few clicks. The _hell_ was he going to let Matt get away with everything. Even if they all got killed, that file was going to Danny should Stiles not retrieve it himself in 48 hours. His teammate would figure it out.

Stiles clicked on the finished button. “Deleted. And we’re done. All right, so, Matt, since all the people you brutally murdered deserved it because they killed you first – whatever that means – I think we’re good here, right? So I’ll just get my dad, and we’ll go, you know? You continue on the whole vengeance thing. Enjoy the kanima.” Okay, so maybe he couldn’t help let some sarcasm leak through.

By the amused look on Matt’s face, Stiles’ scenario wasn’t happening any time soon. He actually looked regretful. In a totally insincere way.

Just then the high beams of a car shone into the room as someone pulled into the parking lot. Stiles winced. Perfect fucking timing, Melissa.

“Sounds like your mom’s here, McCall,” Matt gloated.

Scott looked desperate, “Matt, don’t do this. When she comes to the door, I’ll just tell her to leave. I’ll tell her we didn’t find anything. Please, Matt.”

Stiles wished he could tell his best friend that he was wasting his breath. He could tell by the way Matt’s eyes shone brighter as Scott begged for his mother’s safety. Matt was fucking getting off on the power he had over them, over Jackson. There would be no mercy from Daehler.

Scott froze as they all heard, in the distance, as the front outside door to the station creaked open loudly. Now whoever was out there would have to wait until someone (usually the front desk—Stiles winced inwardly) unlocked the inside door.

Sitting in the chair across from the Sheriff’s desk Matt spoke up with a crazed laugh, “If you don’t move— _now_ , I’m gonna kill Stiles first, and then your mom.”

 _God, he really doesn’t like me._ Stiles thought. And then amended. _That’s fair._

Without any options, and knowing he couldn’t wolf-out without repercussions, Scott and Stiles reluctantly moved to the reception area. Stiles resolutely kept his eyes averted from the desk. The smell of coagulating blood was thick enough, he needed no reminders of what lay behind there.

Unfortunately for Scott, he had yet to see the Deputy’s body. It was one more reminder of why he didn’t want his mother coming into the station.

“Open it,” Matt said shortly, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck.

Scott had to try one more time, “Please,” he said, keeping his eyes down, submissive.

Matt’s blue eyes were furrowed under scowling brows.  “Open. The. Door.” He pronounced with exaggerated cruelty.

Scott leaned forward with restrained tension and turned the doorknob. The door swung open.

Speaking of scowling brows, Derek Hale stood on the other side in all his muscled glory. Both Scott and Stiles breathed easier in relief.

“Oh thank God,” Scott exclaimed.

Stiles would have agreed wholeheartedly except something was wrong. Before he could react, the tall and powerful Alpha pitched forward to the floor and revealed the previously hidden form of a half shifted kanima.

So much for that supernatural rescue. Stiles manfully restrained the urge to roll his eyes _hard_.

Scott looked as though someone had killed all the puppies.

Leaning over Derek to get a good look at the competition, Matt didn’t hold back on the arrogance, hands braced on his knees, giving the werewolf a slow dismissive head to toe.

Not to say Derek knew when to quit. Even paralyzed as he was with kanima venom, the Alpha didn’t know when to shut up. “This is the one controlling him? This kid?” he huffed scornfully.

Matt twitched his head, the vein in his forehead popping. “Well, _Derek_ , not everyone’s lucky enough to be a big, bad werewolf.” He smirked at the narrowed hazel eyes gleaming back at him. He spun back around to Scott and Stiles, “Oh yeah, that’s—that’s right. I’ve learned a few things lately. Werewolves, hunters, kanimas. It’s like a frickin’ Halloween party every full moon.” He gave Stiles the side eye, “Except for you, Stiles. What do you turn into?”

It was funny—not funny how Matt could even needle at Stiles with that.

Not to be outdone Stiles found himself quipping, “Abominable snowman. But, uh, it’s more of, like, a wintertime thing, you know, seasonal.”

Which is probably why Matt made some kind of face at Jack—no—the kanima and Stiles felt a sudden burning at the back of his neck.

“Hey!” he heard Scott shout.

“Bitch!” Stiles mustered. But his legs were folding like baby Bambi and , . . hello look at that . . . Derek caught him. With his torso.

“Get him off of me.” Derek ordered, his voice full of restrained violence.

Matt leaned over once again, “Oh I don’t know, Derek. I think you two make a pretty good pair.”

Derek moved his head as threateningly as he could, which wasn’t much, admittedly.

“It must kinda suck though, to have all that power taken away from you with just a little cut to the back of the neck. I bet you’re not used to feeling this helpless.”

Of course, Matt didn’t realize how close to home those words hit, especially tonight after being drained by Peter, and now paralyzed by the kanima. Derek was practically spitting with incoherent rage.

“Still got some teeth,” Derek gritted out, “Why don’t you get down here a little closer, huh? We’ll see how helpless I am.”

From the vague direction of his armpit, Stiles voice, muffled but plain enough said, “Yeah, bitch!”

So of course the next thing to happen is that everybody hears the set of tires crunch on the gravel outside.

Scott’s head whipped around in sync with the kanimas.

“Is that her?” Matt bites out in disbelief.

Closing his eyes in despair, Scott realizes the situation is just getting more and more out of hand. If his mom walks into this…

“Do what I tell you to and I won’t hurt her,” Matt says with surprising conviction. “I won’t even let Jackson near her.

Before he’s even done talking Stiles is raising his voice in protest, “Scott don’t trust him!”

Derek watches on helplessly as Matt grabs Stiles, his face contorted in rage. He rolls the boy off Derek, onto his back. There’s the harsh sound of fabric tearing and then Matt places a heavy foot on Stiles’ sternum. A horrible moment is spent where Stile’s shocked breath literally gets trapped underneath Matt’s boot. Derek can hear the boy’s heartbeat thunder in growing panic. Derek doesn’t realize he’s growling.

“This work better for ya?” Matt hisses at Scott, he presses his foot down harder. Scott can see Stiles face turning purple, his eyes bulging.

“Okay, just stop! Stop!” Scott pleads.

The veins are standing out in Stiles’ pale face. His eyes are wet.

“Then do what I tell you to!” Matt orders him curtly.

Scott is frantic, “Okay. All right! Stop!”

Matt looks like he’s content to wait until Stiles smothers underneath his foot. In fact, he waits until he is sure he has Scott’s full obedience before lifting his foot off Stiles’ chest.

Immediately Stiles takes a gurgling indrawn breath. It sounds painful.

“You!” Matt barks at Jackson, “Take ‘em in there.” He nods at the Sheriff’s office. Then he fixes his cold gaze on Scott, “You—with me.”

 

It’s—it’s completely another kind of torture just to lay there on the floor and listen to everything going down in the station between Matt and Scott.

Stiles is familiar with being helpless. He’s even old friends with being paralyzed but he discovers a whole new circle of hell when his best friend and the last member of his family are being threatened and there’s not a thing he can do about it.

When he hears the gun goes off, Stiles swears his heart stops.

“He shot Scott,” Derek says curtly, “He’s alive. He’ll be okay.”

It’s not much consolation but he’ll take it. Alive is better than the alternative. Stiles closes his eyes tightly.

He’d never admit it, but he takes a tiny bit of comfort—okay, a _miniscule,_ amount of comfort from the werewolf running warm by his side. If he were here by himself, with lizard breath stalking around in the back, he would likely have passed out from a panic attack by now. It’s easier to pretend bravado around Derek. It’s like, their _thing._

They both hear when Matt and Scott approached the room. Stiles was sure Derek could hear his heartbeat hammering away. Thankfully he makes no mention of his fear, which Stiles is grateful for.

Matt shoves Scott into the room. He is visibly unravelling. Beads of sweat are rolling down his face, his eyes a little wider, wilder. Stiles knows this isn’t a good sign. Someone this unhinged with a gun is unpredictable. Matt’s already proven he’s capable of violence; he just prefers to mete it out via kanima.

“The evidence is gone,” Scott tries to appeal to him, clutching his bloody stomach, “Why don’t you just go?”

“You think the evidence mattered that much huh?” Matt says disdainfully, “Nu-nuh, I want the book!” He waves the gun around emphatically.

Stiles sucks in a breath.

“What—what book?!” Scott is perplexed.

“The bestiary!” Matt emphasizes impatiently.

 _Oh. Oh shit_. Stiles and Derek share a loaded glance, down on the floor. Meanwhile at the back of the panicked debris of Stiles’ mind he couldn’t help thinking. _Well, at least Matt got the word bestiary right—not like Scott and Allison. Huh._

“Not just a few pages,” Matt was continuing to rant, “I want the entire thing.”

“I don’t have it!” Scott said helplessly, “It’s Gerard’s. What do you want it for anyway?”

Shifting back and forth, Matt was getting either impatient or nervous. Neither was a good sign. “I need answers,” he said shiftily, swiping the sweat off the top of his lip.

Good ‘ol Scott was reaching the end of his rope, “Answers to what--?!”

Matt shifted some more but seemed to make a decision, he pulled up the side of his striped shirt, “To this,” he hissed.

And there for all to see, crawling up the side of Matt’s torso, were the rippling traces of kanima scales.

 

It seemed Matt wanted to have the next part of the discussion in private, so once more he left Stiles and Derek under Jackson’s guard.

“Hey, you know what’s happening to Matt?” Stiles asked Derek under his breath.

“I know the book’s not going to help him. You can’t just break the rules, not like this.” Derek’s response was a low. It did not give Stiles inappropriate goosebumps.

“What do you mean?” Stiles demanded.

“Universe balances things out. Always does.”

“Is it because he’s using Jackson to kill people who don’t deserve it?” Stiles guessed.

“And killing people himself,” Derek added.

Thinking out loud Stiles continued with his theory, “So if Matt breaks the rules of the kanima, he becomes the kanima?”

“Balance,” was Derek’s lengthy response.

He had to ask.

“Will he believe us if we tell him that?”

“Not likely,” Derek confirmed his fears.

Stiles did not like those odds. “Okay, he’s gonna kill all of us when he gets that book isn’t he?”

“Yep,” Derek answered shortly.

Stiles groaned softly. “Alright, so what do we do? Do we just—do we just sit here and wait to die?” Cause honestly, that wasn’t an option. He couldn’t lose his dad. He just couldn’t.

“Unless I can figure out a way to push the toxin out of my body faster. Like triggering the healing process.”  Derek informed him.

That—that explanation sounded good on paper, thought Stiles. He tried to angle his head to get a look at what Derek was doing. Then he wished he hadn’t.

“Wha—oh, what are you doing? Aw gross.”  He fought back a gag. Derek was stabbing himself in his thigh with his werewolf claws. He thought the smell of blood was a little too fresh. Bile swirled in the back of Stile’s throat and he fixed Derek with a narrow-eyed gaze. “Sometimes I really hate you.”

Derek stared steadily back. Lie.

There was no uptick in Stile’s heartbeat.

_Interesting._

 

As Matt bled his psychotic little heart out to Scott in the office he didn’t realize how sharp werewolf healing could be. As an Alpha, Derek’s was especially sharp. He relayed Matt’s story of how he drowned at the Lahey’s pool party to Stiles.

Stiles kept most of his comments to himself but basically it was his opinion that just because the dude had a close brush with death, or an actual brush with death, didn’t give him the right to turn around and murder a bunch of stupid selfish people in revenge (Peter—take notes) via supernatural slave.

He also knew they were running out of time.

“So is that hypothetical situation we talked about getting any less hypothetical?” Stiles asked tentatively. What? Maybe werewolves were sensitive to being helpless and under threat by gun-toting homicidal teenagers? Stiles had no desire to get punched any time soon. His quota of violence for the week had been surpassed.

“I think so,” Derek said hopefully, “I can move my toes.”

Stiles closed his eyes. Welp, there went his hope for survival. “Dude, _I_ can move my toes,” he said flatly.

Just because the night couldn’t get any more grim, that seemed to be the cue for the power to go out.

The backup generator kicked in immediately and emergency lights lit up the corners. Sirens began to wail.

The sound of machine-gun fire and glass shattering also added to the bedlam. Stiles and Derek began to struggle against the lingering effects of the kanima poison, not knowing what was going on, but knowing it whatever it was, it was _bad._

 

Stiles was trying to ignore the fact that he and Derek probably resembled suffocating goldfish more than anything right that point in time when Scott came skidding into the room, having thrown Jackson away from the door.

Derek had made it up to one elbow by the time Scott slid to the floor by their sides.

“Take him!” Derek commanded, when the other boy hesitated. Stiles made a scoffing sound of protest, or he would have if his lurching sense of direction hadn’t momentarily stunned him as Scott hauled him upright. _No, no wait! Derek’s hurt too!_ Stiles brain shorted out. His eyes tried to convey his concern as they shifted towards the Alpha. Unfortunately no one noticed in the dark room.

“GO!” Derek shouted.

Fortunately for Derek, but unfortunately for them, the kanima recovered swiftly and chose them as his targets. They played a chilling game of tag through a series of doors where Scott did his best to slow the kanima down by locking them all behind him as he went. It didn’t slow him down for long, and unfortunately Stiles was awkward baggage.

The last door they went through was sturdier than most. It figured. It was the interrogation room. Scott eased Stiles down on a chair, catching his loosely bobbing head apologetically. “Don’t move,” he told Stiles, realizing what he was saying as soon as the words were out.

Stiles just gave him a _look_.  

Scott winced. “You know what I mean.”

 

Bullshit.

This was _bullshit_.

Stiles was not going to just sit here in this room. Alone. Waiting for everyone to die like some helpless little coward.

His nostrils flared as he struggled to lift his head and gain control of his limbs. His breath burst from his mouth in sharp gusts. A frustrated groan filled the room as his body refused to do more than twitch.

He had to help them. Help his Dad.

Stiles’ head dropped forward on his chest and he glared at his spasming fingers. It was like watching someone else’s body. He willed himself to move but the response wasn’t there. At first it was a similar sensation to getting a shot of morphine, but localized; a fuzzy drifting away feeling that he couldn’t speed up no matter how much he wanted it to. Then like when he was paralyzed at the auto shop, when the venom wore off it would feel like the most intense pins and needles _ever_ as his nerves came back online. Right now he was just starting to feel phantom burning in his extremities.

The interrogation room was just around the corner from the drunk tank. It was agonizing to know he was so close to his dad and yet still unable to do anything.

“C’mon, c’mon--!” Stiles bit out impatiently. He didn’t realize he was rocking himself until the chair tipped over and his puppet-like body spilled bonelessly to the floor. He was unable to protect his face and it smacked hard against the cement floor.

“—Oww—” he groaned out of the corner of his mouth. His nose burned hot with pain. He hoped it wasn’t broken.

Stiles wanted to shout with victory though when he found himself able to drag his arm up the side of his body. It was slow going, but he was finally getting somewhere! Scrunching up his face in concentration, he did the same thing with his other arm and tried to push himself up onto his knees.

Yeah, no go.

Too shaky. He was liable to break his nose for real if he kept it up. So Stiles resigned himself to a kind of Commando crawl that probably looked more squished bug than Marine Corps. The trip dragging himself across the interrogation room floor felt like it took years but when he got to the door he looked up and realized just how far away the door handle looked from where he was laying.

Stiles stretched his arm up as far as he could manage. Grunting with the strain of pushing himself past his limit, he realized with a sinking feeling that his fingertips were still at least a foot away from the door knob. “No, no, no, no!!” he chanted in dismay. _This isn’t happening to me!_

He slammed his hand against the floor and made an animal-like noise of frustration.

When he looked up at the door knob the next time his whiskey eyes were narrowed in determination. Stiles pushed himself forward with his toes until his body was fetched up against the wall. His fingers scrabbled for any kind of hold they could manage, to keep his numb torso from toppling over. Panting hard with exertion, Stiles measured the distance from where he now sat, to the handle. _It should work . . ._

He reached out but didn’t realize that gravity would want to reclaim the weight of his upper body without the use of his muscles to hold him upright. Stiles yelped as he tipped over, his fingers scrabbled over the slippery knob for some kind of purchase. With a click, the door disengaged, but again he miscalculated and found now he had purchase of the handle, but not control of his body, and he was going along for a ride as the door swung open.

Stiles hoped fervently that the power outage meant the security cameras were down. Nobody needed to see this. Ever.

It took him longer than he wanted to admit to untangle himself from behind the door and begin his army-man crawl down the hallway towards the drunk tank. As he inched closer he could discern noises, grunts and Ms. McCall’s hushed cries of encouragement. Even _way_ out of context Stiles could have had blackmail fodder till graduation if he didn’t have more pressing matters on his mind.

Never again would Stiles make fun of anyone doing the fitness. Crawling down a hallway, dragging his meager 147 pounds along the floor using only his arms and toes was unbelievably difficult. He didn’t know what kind of help he expected to be but he couldn’t stop to think about it, he just knew that time was running out.

He was pulling himself around the corner to the drunk tank just in time to see his dad pull himself free from the plate in the wall. The Sheriff and Ms. McCall looked at each other in excited disbelief as they stared at the dangling plate hanging from his wrist.

Everyone’s attention was sufficiently distracted no one noticed Matt stalking forward from the opposite doorway until he pistol whipped the Sheriff on the back of the head.

Stiles reached helplessly for his father as the blow dropped him violently, the _crack_ of the butt of the gun on his skull went straight to the center of Stiles’ chest. He was helpless to watch as his dad’s head bounced off the bench. He lay ominously still at Matt’s spread feet.

Mouth open in a silent cry, Stiles sagged to the floor in defeat. He was too late.

He was suddenly exhausted. From the crawl down the hallway. From always being a failure. It was then his father’s words from Lydia’s party came back to him, like a confirmation,

_“It's you. It's all you. You know, every day I saw her lying that hospital slowly dying—I thought, ‘how the hell am I supposed to raise this stupid kid on my own? This hyperactive little bastard who keeps ruining my life?’ It's all you. It's you, Stiles. You killed your mother. You hear me? You killed her. And now you're killing me.”_

Stiles gave up. His dad was dead and it was all his fault. He put his head down on the cold cement floor and ignored everything going on around him. Something logical and ADD related was still running in the corners of his brain enough that he recognized Derek’s roar, and the kanima’s spine unhinging hiss. But.

Nothing mattered anymore.

Someone tripped over his legs. Stiles registered a familiar scoff but didn’t bother moving.

“Taking a nap, Stilinski?” Matt said harshly.

Stiles opened his eyes and glared at him with burning amber eyes.

Matt looked like he was fleeing the scene. He hesitated, contemplating Stiles with a cruel curl to his lips.

Not really caring anymore, figuring he was going to end up as just another body in the hallway, Stiles closed his eyes in resignation.

Fingers curled in the hem of his pant legs and Stiles felt Matt tugging him away from the scene of the crime. He thought he heard the other boy mutter, _“If I can’t have you--”_

But Stiles was too numb with grief to give a shit.

 

Time lost all meaning. In fact he probably lost consciousness for a bit. The next time he was aware of his surroundings, Stiles opened his eyes only to find himself surrounded by darkness.

It was damp and cold. In his short sleeved shirt, it was clear wherever he was it was outside. He lifted his cheek from the gritty surface it was resting on only to let out an unwilling groan of pain. The small movement brought his attention to the soreness radiating from his spine and the trembling over-exhaustion in his muscles.

Stiles was starfished on the ground. Blinking slowly in incomprehension, he tried to understand his surroundings. There were damp brick walls within a few arms-span on either side. An alley then. How did he get from the station to an alley? His head throbbed.

“Not dead then?” a malicious voice spoke up.

Stiles’ body tensed. He turned his head slowly.

Matt was sitting against one of the walls, knees against his chest, arms draped limply over his knees. His eyes glittered in the darkness.

“I’m resilient like that,” Stiles replied, his voice gravelly. He didn’t care anymore about pissing Matt off. If Stiles saw an opening he would take the chance to kill him. Inconspicuously, Stiles eyed his surroundings for something to use as a weapon. A rock, a piece of wood, a bottle. Anything.

“Not the word I’d use,” Matt sneered.

“What do you want me for Matt?” Stiles ignored the jibe. There was a brick a couple of feet away. He would have to lunge but Matt wasn’t in a very vigilant pose, he might have a chance. Stiles bunched his muscles in preparation.

Matt might have shrugged, it was hard to tell in the gloom. “I still need the bestiary.”

The incredulous bark of laughter that burst from Stiles lips was unexpected, “And you expect me to help you?” The image of his father’s body dropping heavily to the floor flashed across Stiles eyes. He saw red. “Fuck you!”

He lunged forward for the brick. Thankfully the poison was gone from his body, so everything reacted the way it was supposed to—however before he could take the last step, arm already outstretched—something seized him around his waist and he found himself tackled by a rock hard body.

All the breath was slammed out of him as he hit the ground. _Kanima,_ he realized too late.

His struggling was for naught. A scaled arm pinned his to his chest with all the resistance of an iron band. Stiles tried kicking but the kanima was resting its weight over top him, giving him no space to get his legs under him.

“Good boy,” crooned Matt in a disturbing voice. “I told you I’d reward you for being so obedient, didn’t I?”

The kanima made a clicky-hiss noise over Stiles’ head. The bruised boy underneath him shivered at the unnatural noise. He squirmed desperately, cold and sweaty, and now even more so in the abomination’s tight grip.

“—Wh-what?” rasped Stiles.

Matt was on his feet, circling the two of them, “After the pathetic mess at the station, I need a little cheering up.” His feet came to a stop by Stiles’ head. “I had another in mind but—it didn’t work out.” His voice darkened.

Stiles frowned. What the hell was the psycho going on about? Was he planning on feeding him to Jackson? What about the bestiary?

Crouching down so that he could look into Stiles face, Matt smiled humorlessly, “I don’t like guys but that won’t be a problem will it Stiles? We both know you’re all bitch.”

Stiles froze. _He wasn’t talking about--_

The sound of a belt being unbuckled reached his ears and Stiles shuddered in horror. His eyes widened. _No._

Matt came back in sight and Stiles made a low sound of denial. The boy’s jeans were unzipped. His face was frozen in a rictus of hate. He jerked his chin at the kanima and at some unspoken signal Stiles found himself being lifted off the ground. He tried to struggle but other than one leg kicking out briefly, it was only a brief scuffle.

“No! Matt—don’t do this!” Stile’s voice cracked.

“Oh trust me, you’ll want me to break you in,” Matt said with deceptive softness. He was tugging roughly at Stile’s jeans, “have you ever seen a kanima dick?” he clucked his tongue sympathetically at the horror that flashed across Stile’s face.

The cold air on Stiles ass prompted a new surge of panic and Stiles renewed his struggles. Matt cuffed him on the side of his head and growled at the kanima to hold him under the knees. Stiles started to hyperventilate as he realized how he looked, with his back against the kanima’s scaly torso, his knees pinned to his chest, gripped there by long claws. His bare ass and soft dick exposed for Matt to stare at.

Matt pushed his knees further apart and smirked, “It’s a good look for you Stilinski.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles said shakily.

Spitting into his palm Matt reached down below Stiles sight line, nevertheless it was clear what he was doing. If the slick sound and motion of his arm didn’t give it away.

When his baggy striped shirt kept getting in the way, Matt made an impatient sound and shoved the front over his head. Even in the dim light, the shimmer of Kanima scales rising up Matt’s sides were clear.

“Don’t,” Stiles begged.

The tip of something hot and wet pressed against his asshole and Stiles choked off a cry.

Matt’s jaw ticked and then he thrust forward mercilessly.

Stiles couldn’t hold back the cry of agony as he was breached without preparation or sufficient lube.

“Shut up,” Matt hissed into his ear, his fingers gripping his hips tightly. “You’re going to take it do you hear me?”

Holding back a pained sob, Stiles bit down on his lip. Tears burned the corners of his eyes.

“That’s right you little bitch,” Matt huffed, jabbing his hips harshly into the tight clutch that Stiles provided for him. “Made for this aren’t you? Cock hungry little whore.”

With every deep thrust Matt’s pubes ground against Stiles ass. It hurt in a deep burning way that Stiles wouldn’t be surprised to find himself bleeding from. The unhinged murderer jackknifing into him only cared about the now-slick squeeze of flesh around his plunging dick. Matt’s eyes were squeezed shut, his breath heavy and harsh against Stile’s neck.

Stile’s eyes were staring unseeing at the sky. It was a bit overcast but every once in a while he would catch a glimpse of a star through the cloud-cover. He tried to lift himself away from his body and join the distant, unfeeling burnt-out suns.

“H—nnn.” Matt grunted into his neck, “Allison, fuck. So tight. So good, baby.”

Stiles flinched.

The rhythm of Matt’s thrusts was beginning to stutter. He slowed, making his thrusts longer but deeper. “I’m going to come inside you, Allison. Fill you up.”

Tears slid down Stiles’ burning cheeks.

Matt’s hips hitched, “Hffuu—uuck,” he groaned out his release, shooting deep inside Stiles, his hips making an obscene wet noise against his leaking ass.

It took him a few moments to collect himself but when Matt’s softening cock dropped out, Matt’s face was hard once more as though he hadn’t said some pretty fucked up things. He rocked back on his heels and stood up, tucking himself in his pants.

“Did you know that kanima’s are similar to lizards in some respects?” Matt sniffed casually. “As in their reproductive cycle. Freaky right? Not like there’s many of them around to multiply or anything, but there you have it.”

Stiles was drifting, trying to make sense of the words that were floating over him.

Matt saw that he wasn’t paying attention and stopped to grasp his chin in his fingers, “For example, male lizards typically have what is called a hemipenes, which for all intents and purposes, is a double headed penis.”

Stiles felt bile begin to climb his throat as the words began to puncture his shock.

“Now while that might make Jackson and his attention seeking personality a lucrative career in the porn industry it doesn’t quite translate over to his human self,” Matt explained with vicious delight, “and lucky for you, Stiles, Jackson is a kanima, not a lizard, so his dick only has a  freaky looking split head and some spiny bits.”

This was not reassuring. And by the elated look on Matt’s face, Stiles was sure this was the objective.

“Don’t make Jackson do this,” Stiles rasped out. “Matt, please. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Matt shrugged. “Right now, it’s not Jackson. And I did promise him a reward.”

Stiles shoulders shook with silent sobs as the kanima followed his master’s lead and rearranged Stile’s so that he was kneeling on the dirty ground.

Breathy huffs of air chuffed over Stile’s hips as the kanima scented him, finding the scent of sex and master and other kanima, lingering on the marked flesh. Its slitted yellow eyes looked up to confirm permission from its master before leaning closer to the warm-blooded creature’s sex. The male was distraught, but that sentiment was of no concern, he had a more driving directive. The pheromones in the air were tantalizing, mixing with the powerful command from his master to _breed_.

The kanima crawled over the smaller, softer creature. It placed a restraining claw on the back of its head, pushing down and forcing the male to present himself. With its other claw it carefully lifted the receptive male’s hips level with its own.

Stiles was shivering uncontrollably as he felt the rasp of kanima scales against his backside. “Please, don’t. Please. Please, don’t.” He chanted. His head was being forced against the ground, something small and sharp was digging into his cheek but he was more concerned about the claws prickling into his skull and waist.

Stiles hands dug hopelessly for purchase on the dirty ground. His harsh, panicked breaths echoed back along the alley walls.

As the kanima continued to draw in the tantalizing cocktail of scent from the body, its sex unfurled from its protective sheath to prod Stile’s clenched ass cheeks.

“Oh god,” Stiles whimpered brokenly. He curled an arm around his tear-streaked face.

The kanima rocked its hips blindly against Stiles’ ass, the hammerhead shape of its penis slick with some kind of pre-come. Stiles couldn’t see it but he could feel the odd shape, his breath hitched in his throat as it caught on his rim where Matt’s ejaculate still oozed.

“That’s it,” Matt breathed, transfixed at the sight of the kanima attempting to mount the human boy. “You want to breed him, don’t you?”

Stile’s felt horror roll over his body in tremors.

That’s when the kanima’s oddly-shaped tip successfully zeroed in on Stiles’ twitching furl. Sensing victory, the kanima’s hips drove forward intuitively. Stiles cried out harshly as he was speared without ceremony. The kanima’s thrusts were quick-paced and vicious right from the start. His breath was literally pounded out of him.

It felt—it felt claustrophobic. Being held down and driven into with such mindless fury. Stiles tried not to think of how he felt stretched beyond capacity. Every strange ridge and blunt spine of the monster’s cock seemed to drive deep into his belly.

And the sounds—the hissing click of the kanima’s breath on the back of his neck; the graphic wet rasp of flesh on scale, Stiles’ own muffled yelps, Matt’s satisfied hum. They were seared into Stiles’ brain.

Time seemed to smear sideways.

By the time the kanima’s hips corkscrewed one final time and remained deeply anchored, Stiles was barely conscious. The only reason he hadn’t sagged to the ground in complete exhaustion were the two clawed hands locking him in place.

Stiles shuddered when he realized that the kanima hadn’t withdrawn because he was still coming. The faint pulsing deep inside his bowels seemed to confirm this. Stiles bit down on his fist as not to scream.

After what seemed like a century, Stiles felt the claws digging into his skull pull free. The kanima slowly pulled back, its long cock dragging free of Stiles. Wincing at the pain in his ass, and spine, Stiles anticipated the agony of that hateful flared head passing his swollen and abused rim. However, just as he could feel the bulge getting close, the kanima paused and let out a weird dry trill.

Stiles tensed at the sudden and unwelcome fullness suddenly filling his rectum.

“Did I tell you about the one thing kanima’s do have in common with lizards?” Matt suddenly broke the silence, “they finish copulation with a mating plug. A gelatinous plug fills the channel to keep the sperm safely inside. Congratulations Stiles, you get to keep our jizz nice and warm inside your slutty little pussy a little longer.”

Stiles was too busy panicking to notice the kanima had pulled out. He was choking as he tried to draw air into his lungs.

Suddenly a hand was curled in his hair and dragging him painfully to his knees. “So, now. Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Matt spat in his face. “You’re going to help me get the book, or I’m going to give you to my pet to play with permanently.” He gave Stiles head a harsh shake. “Do we understand each other?”

Before Stiles could respond, there was a low, mean growl from the roof over their heads.

Matt’s head snapped up. Stiles heard the kanima hiss threateningly but he was too tired to care, collapsing back to the ground in a limp heap.

A dark blur leapt down despite the four stories that separated them and Matt was sufficiently freaked out. He sprinted for the exit of the alley, leaving Stiles behind without even blinking. The kanima however, hovered reluctantly. It was momentarily unwilling to leave behind what it recognized as a possible source of offspring.

Faced with the threat of the oncoming werewolf and the panicked call of its master, the kanima reluctantly gave up safekeeping of his potential mate and backed away from the threat slowly.

When the alley was clear, the dark figure dropped next to Stiles half-conscious form.

“Fucking kanima,” the man growled under his breath.

Eyes fluttering open, Stiles got one look at the person bending over him. “No.” His breath hitched before his body sagged, insensate.

Peter grimaced. Then he fished a phone from his jacket pocket, “Deaton. I have incoming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No the Sheriff isn't dead. Stiles just thought he was the way he went down. 
> 
> Next up in the crap on Stiles line-up is Gerard. Um, *yay?*
> 
> Also, just a heads up, I know I don't update frequently but I will get back to this, subscribe if you want immediate satisfaction. ;)


	4. Deadpool & Crocodile Dundee are ruined for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HARD trigger warning!!  
> Rape/Non Con, awful nasty language used, do not read if you will be triggered.

 

There had never been a moment where Stiles had wanted to be at school any _less_ than he did at that moment.

The past week had been one of the worst in his life. He could honestly say that, even suspecting he had repressed large chunks of it so that was saying something.

He actively remembered not wanting to remember the slaughter at the Police Station. The kani—Jackson. And Matt. How helpless he’d felt watching his father get pistol whipped. So sure that his father was dead the way he’d fallen to the floor in the holding cell (So glad, he’d been mistaken. So. _So_ glad.)

After, though. It was all a blur. A nightmare.

He woke up in Deaton’s clinic and despite some rather leading evidence in the way of aches and pains (not to mention incredibly awkward stitches), Stiles vehemently did not want to remember how they came about. He cut Deaton off before he could say anything about who had found and delivered him to the clinic. Or what Deaton had to do to patch him up.  He didn’t want to know.

Despite his best efforts at repression the past week had been filled with sleepless nights, screaming himself awake and the inability to keep food down. His father was worried about him. Not being able to locate his son immediately after the attacks at the station had been a moment of utter terror for the Sheriff. He was sure his son had joined the rest of the murdered deputies. John Stilinski had witnessed the poorly restrained malice Matt Daehler had for Stiles and came to his own conclusion.

Stiles guessed that was why he found himself in the guidance counselor’s office, uncomfortably fidgeting under the gaze of Ms. Morrell. He was missing part of Lacrosse practice for this, which was why he was sitting in his gear, chewing feverishly on his crosse.

He spit out a lace, finally unable to take the silence any longer, “You know when you're drowning, you don't actually inhale until right before you black out. It's called voluntary apnea. It's like no matter how much you're freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won't open your mouth until you feel like your head's exploding. But then when you finally do let it in, that's when it stops hurting. It's not scary anymore. It's - it's actually kind of peaceful.”

He cringed inwardly. _Wow, Stiles. Way to sound like you need the intervention. Great way to sound like nothing is wrong._

Ms. Morrell of course didn’t reveal her inner thoughts, “Are you saying you hope Matt felt some peace in his last moments?”

An ugly lump squeezed the breath from Stiles lungs. “I don’t feel sorry for him,” He answered coolly.

“Can you feel sorry for the nine-year-old Matt who drowned?”

This is probably why his characters always ended up Chaotic Neutral when he played online. Stiles knew he should probably answer differently but, “Just because a bunch of dumbasses dragged him into a pool when he couldn't swim doesn't really give him the right to go off killing them one by one. And by the way, my dad told me that they found a bunch of pictures of Allison on Matt's computer. And not just of her though. I mean, he photo shopped himself into these pictures. Stuff like them holding hands and kissing. You know, like he had built this whole fake relationship. So yeah, maybe drowning when he was nine years old was what sent him off the rails, but the dude was definitely riding the crazy train.”

His stomach went sour at the thought of those images of Allison. _—if I can’t have—_

The nauseous tickle of memory threatened the edges of . . . Stiles forced himself to pay attention.

“One positive thing came out of this, though. Right?” Ms. Morrell said leadingly.

Honestly Stiles had no idea what she was talking about. Positive? _Nooo._ Did she mean his dad getting his Sheriff title back? How could that be positive exactly? Half the force died violently and the county was practically forced to give the position back out of loss of manpower. It wasn’t a pardon, or an apology.

However, Stiles nodded obediently. If she wanted positive he would give her something uh, positive. Talk about his dad. Councilors loved that shit. “Yeah. Yeah, but I still feel like there's something wrong between us. I don't know. It's just like tension when we talk. Same thing with Scott.”

“Have you talked to him since that night?” Morrell asked. Stiles blinked. His dad? No. Oh, she meant Scott.

“No, not really. I mean, he's got his own problems to deal with though.” Stiles said this pretty blithely but inside he was smarting. He hadn’t heard anything from his best friend since the night at the Station. Scott had left him, paralyzed and alone, in the interrogation room while he chased after the Kanima. Or, more specifically, Allison.

Stiles was loyal but he wasn’t blind. Or stupid. Scott’s behavior towards him was careless at best. But add that to not checking up on him _after_? Especially when . . . Stiles shook himself mentally. No, he wasn’t going to think about that. The only word he’s received from Scott had been a brief text or two a couple days after the fact.

He’d always been good at deflecting. Or rather, explaining away rejection.

“I don't think he's talked to Allison either. But that might be more her choice, you know. Her mom dying hit her pretty hard. But I guess it brought her and her dad closer.” _Wow was that ever the sarcastic understatement of the year. Good thing Morrell couldn’t read his mind._ “And Jackson? (Stiles’ palms began to sweat. He didn’t want to think about--) Jackson hasn't really been himself lately. Actually the funny thing is, as of right now, Lydia is the one who seems the most normal.”

Of course she picked up on his self-depreciation, “And what about you, Stiles? (His heart thumped hard at being her sole focus) Feeling some anxiety about that championship game tomorrow night?”

Stiles huffed nervously, “Why would you ask me that? Ah. Uh, no. I - I never actually play. But hey, since one of my teammates is dead and another one's missing, who knows, right?”

“You mean, Isaac.” She said maddeningly calm. “One of the three runaways. You haven't heard from any of them, have you?”

In order to deflect Stiles attempted to direct the attention back at her, “How come you're not taking any notes on this?”

“I do my notes after the session.”

“Your memory's that good?” He asked dubiously.

Ms. Morrell wasn’t falling for it. “How about we get back to you?”

“I'm fine.” He said with a miniscule shrug. But then it was like he couldn’t shut his mouth, “Yeah, aside from the not sleeping, the jumpiness, the constant, overwhelming, crushing fear that something terrible is about to happen.”

Her eyes were uncannily sharp, Stiles didn’t like the feeling that she knew more about his problems than he was letting on. “It's called hyper-vigilance, the persistent feeling of being under threat.” She informed him.

Stiles persisted, “But it's not just a feeling, though. It's - it's like it's a panic attack. You know, like I can't even breathe.”

“Like you're drowning?”

Even though it was a creepy comparison all things considered, Stiles had to reluctantly agree.

“Yeah.”

Ms. Morrell offered a suggestion, “So if you're drowning, and you're trying to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment, what if you choose to not open your mouth? To not let the water in?”

How he knew he had no idea. Must have been one of his late night ADD Google binges, “You do anyway. It's a reflex.” He said.

“But if you hold off until that reflex kicks in, you have more time, right?” She tried.

“Not much time.” _What was she trying to get at?_

She insisted, “But more time to fight your way to the surface?”

He said reluctantly, “I guess.” Her direction was making him uncomfortable.

 Ms. Morrell, “More time to be rescued?”

Stiles was starting to shake. This was getting too close to— “More time to be in agonizing pain.” He heard himself insist. “I mean, did you forget about the part where you feel like your head's _exploding?!_ ”

Now she sounded almost . . . understanding. “If it's about survival, isn't a little agony worth it?”

This was unbearable. He wished she would go back to the neutral façade she maintained so well. Those knowing eyes made him _choke._

“But what if it just gets _worse?_ What if it's agony now and then - and it's just hell later on?” Stiles asked her. He basically begged. He hid his trembling fingers underneath his crossed arms.  

He couldn’t look her in the eyes any longer. But he waited for her answer, his teeth almost chattering in distress.

“Then think about something Winston Churchill once said - "If you're going through hell, keep going."

  
  
****

 

Turning around and seeing his Uncle after two of his Beta’s had willingly defected completely ruined Derek’s already shittastic day. He had no patience for dealing with the man wearing his Uncles face. The man who had _used_ his Alpha power to come back from the _dead_ —

Derek felt Peter should have remembered the adage “Don’t bait the wolf, don’t poke the tiger.”

So when the older werewolf taunted him with snide comments about his timing and feeling welcome, Derek couldn’t see anything but deceit and lies falling from Peters lips. He didn’t need a warning from the mysterious Deaton to hear the half-truths, fecund in the air like rotten fruit. He knew Peter expected to find him reeling from the gaping wound where Erica and Boyd should be in the pack bond; timed it so that Derek would be vulnerable with feeling so much guilt for failing them as an Alpha.

While this was all true, Derek’s eyes were _wide_ open.

When Peter placed his ingratiating hand on Derek’s shoulder as though he could mentor him like he did when they were younger, _that_ was the last straw. Peter knew it too, as soon as he made contact and felt the coiled steel **rage** that Derek was only barely holding back.

He was flying through the air before his eyes even had a chance to widen in realization.

Derek followed Peter, not giving him a chance to get up. He whaled on him with his fists, seeing him through a vision gone crimson with fury. This man, this Uncle, (a person he had looked up to—a younger voice whispered) had killed the last person Derek had left in the world. His big sister. His Alpha. The rest of his family were in the very ashes of the house they moved through.

And for what? To become Alpha himself to gain revenge?

God, it made Derek want to be ill from the waste of it all.

Here he was now. _He_ was the Alpha. It was the biggest joke of all. His Betas were breaking away from his failure of a pack out of a toxic combination of fear and his inexperience. He couldn’t even keep them safe for a measly handful of months.

Peter was echoing his thoughts. His poisonous pit viper words only anchored Derek’s self-hate even deeper.

The worst thing though? Was that when Peter mentioned family, Derek could hear that the man wasn’t lying. Not completely. He did have some kind of vested interest in helping Derek because they were kin.

That was even worse than if Peter tried openly to go for his throat, Derek thought bitterly, as he backed away from the prone figure on the floor. Because what would he have left if he repudiated Peter?

The cold wind blowing through the holes in his crumbling house were his only answer.

 

****

 

Escaping from Ms. Morell’s office, Stiles caught the end of creepy grandpa Argent’s murder speech in the locker room. His stomach plummeted to his sneakers, and his shoulders dropped with defeat. How were they supposed to deal with _this_ crazy psycho?! They had only just survived Matt!

He caught movement from the corner of his eye and saw a sliver of Jackson standing next to Danny between the rows of lockers.

Stiles froze up. His breathing hitched in his chest as memory assaulted him,

_. . .the hissing click of the kanima’s breath on the back of his neck; the graphic wet rasp of flesh on scale . . ._

Jackson’s head snapped. Maybe he heard Stiles’ hammering heartbeat, or smelled the scent of fear, or something else, something undefinable—

Before he could zero in on the source, Stiles was gone.

 

****

 

 

  
It was likely the number of blows to the head he’d taken that Stiles didn’t even notice what was happening until he was being dragged across the basement floor, across the room, and slung over some kind of wooden bench, like the ones they had in the change room at school. Not until dropping him face first over said bench, careless of his broken ribs did Stiles make any kind of effort to figure out what was going on.

Gerard Argent had been joined at some point by the henchman he’d dubbed Clint Eastwood. (And not the young attractive Clint Eastwood. This one was the scraggly, wrinkly version of later years and looked like he spent too much time in a bottle.) Unfortunately for Stiles, he realized his opinions of youth outshining the stamina and strength of his elderly abductors were sorely misinformed. Painfully so.

He had the bruises, and broken bones to show for it.

“M’not telling you nything,” Stiles wheezed, his head drooping with exhaustion and pain.

“I would normally say that trait was commendable,” Gerard said, from behind him, “but while I am surprised at your stubbornness. It does perhaps reveal a bit more about your own position in the pack.”

Stiles shivered as Creepy Grandpa’s voice got closer.

“I did have my theories as to why a Werewolf pack would keep a human around.” Gerard continued, clearly loving the sound of his own voice. “But I couldn’t be certain.”

Dude was making him dizzy; walking around him in slow circles.

“—Fk are you talking about--?” Stiles mumbled. _Scott, where the hell are you?_ This was becoming a familiar internal refrain. Surely to god they noticed him get taken from the field . . . even that had to be so obvious it would be impossible for Scott’s dumb-puppy ability to skip over. Right?!

His dad would wonder where he was—

Or—

Somebody—

Stiles missed some of the monologue and Henchman #2, ‘Francis’ (this guy was CLEARLY the bad guy’s twin from Deadpool) tying his wrists to either end of the bench. The position kind of stretched his arms out and made him drop his head tiredly to the sharp edge. His ears were ringing from the earlier blows. He probably had a concussion. His nose felt like it might be broken.

He was _tired_.

Gerard’s perfectly polished boots stopped right under his nose. Stiles couldn’t help flinching.

“I know what you are. Mr. Stilinski,” came the ominous voice. “And I can understand now why you would do anything to protect this pack of dogs.”

Stiles heard Erica whimper and his awareness instinctively shifted to what was upsetting her. He almost didn’t hear Gerard’s next words. “There’s only one reason why a human would want to hang around a bunch of filthy animals like werewolves,” he spat in disgust. “And it’s either because you _are_ or want to _become_ the Pack _bitch!_ ”

_Wait what?_

The words didn’t sink in for a moment. Stiles stared blankly at those fucking perfectly polished steel toed boots. The ones that had tried to cave in his stomach just a short while ago. He tried to make the ugly words make sense.

Then, he was filled with inexplicable amounts of horror and disgust. _What?!_  

But. As always. Stiles had no filter over his mouth.

As his mind was still going over the incomprehensible words and lining them up with the nightmare that was his life lately he coughed up a rusty laugh, “Sry. You got me mixed up with your daughter,” Stiles croaked.

Predictably, Gerard roared and one boot blurred in Stiles line of sight.  There was a sudden, unexpected hot flash of pain as the heel crushed Stiles’ hand against the bench.

Stiles’ whole body bowed as something in his hand snapped. Or popped. Possibly both. It was not pleasant in the least. His abused throat gave out mid scream and he sagged against the bench, staring through wet eyes at the unnatural shape of his hand. _Oh god. That’s so not good._

There were things being screamed at him. Stuff he couldn’t hear over the ringing in his ears, even if he tried. All of Stiles effort was remaining conscious through the agonizing fire radiating up his arm from his hand.

“—re is Derek Hale!!” Gerard was basically spitting in his face.

He never wanted to be that close to the principal. What was with his face? He had no upper lip. And there was also a permanent upside down wrinkle in the middle of his forehead, between his beady eyes. In the shape of an upside down T. Now _that_ was evidence he could use to show Derek what could happen with all that scowling he did.

“S’Not. Here.” Stiles managed to get out. He didn’t even have to look at Erica or Boyd to see their pleading gazes, begging him not to spill the location of their hideout. Hell if he was going to tell this psychopath where the Alpha was. Derek may have made a lot of mistakes, but after their initial antagonism Stiles could see a man doing the best he could with the shitty cards he’d been dealt. Lately Derek had done a lot more for Stiles as an _afterthought_ than Scott had this entire year as his _best friend._

Gerard’s beady eyes narrowed as Stiles’ refused to cooperate yet again. “Very well,” he said in that gravelly voice of his. He looked to the other Hunters in the room, “The Pack bonds are too strong already. These three won’t give up their Alpha without a lot of dedication on our end and we just don’t have the time.”

Again, Stiles found it difficult to pay attention to Gerard’s words. He was unsuccessfully fighting off a panic attack. This was too much like—

_**Peter placed Stiles’ hands on the doorframe, pressing them there with a rather convincing pinch of claws. **_

_**Harris made a tching sound and placed his hands under Stiles’ unresisting shoulders. One heave later and the edge of the table was under his neck. He had no choice but to view the room from upside down as his head hung limply over the side. **_

_**Crouching down so that he could look into Stiles face, Matt smiled humorlessly, “I don’t like guys but that won’t be a problem will it Stiles? We both know you’re all bitch.”**_

He couldn’t breathe—

“We still need to send a message,” Gerard said ominously.

Stiles was too busy struggling with his panic attack, to hear him. Erica and Boyd however didn’t like how the Hunters were collectively eyeing the struggling human. They shared an agonized expression over the gaffer’s tape covering half their faces.

“King, Russell, make sure the creatures are bound tight. I’ll get this one ready,” Gerard ordered in his gravel voice.

Stiles tried to fight the restraints that held him down as the two hunters headed towards Erica and Boyd but he was lashed down tight. “Don’t touch thnnmm--!!” His shout was muffled by the rag that Gerard shoved unceremoniously into his mouth. Stiles retched around the questionable fabric, tongue working to shove it out but Gerard was there to keep it in place with a length of tape.

It only made Stiles’ panic worse.

“Can’t have Allison coming down here, now can we?” Gerard bent to say companionably in his ear.

“Too bad.” The younger hunter, _Francis_ , in Stiles’ mind, said returning from increasing the electrical current. “I was looking forward to trying out the bitch’s mouth.” He assessed Stiles’ splayed out form with a tilted head.

Cold sweat broke out all over Stiles’ body. He couldn’t look over where Boyd and Erica were hung like a pair of prize deer. He couldn’t face their horrified faces.

“I would love to be there to see Hale’s expression when he sees his bitch completely defiled,” Gerard sneered. “Nothing makes those mutts more feral than when you seed their own.”

Stiles was nauseous. The gag in his mouth was not helping the urge to throw up any, and he knew if he did, they would likely let him asphyxiate on his own vomit. He swallowed convulsively, trying to breathe through his aching nose. He wished, desperately, that he could burst Gerard’s joygasm and let him know that he was nothing to Derek but an annoyance. At least the fucker wouldn’t get what he wanted, Stiles thought, blinking back hot tears.

Cold fingers tapped along the waistband of his lacrosse shorts. Stiles choked back a sob with difficulty, his breath exploding sharply through his nose as his body jolted.

“Have to say, you’re not really Hale’s type,” Gerard commented as he tugged Stiles’ shorts and underwear down over his hips sharply. “But then again. Maybe you offered yourself to his pack? You seem kind of desperate for attention.”

Stiles wanted to die. He couldn’t help the ashamed groan and the wetness that clung to his lashes as his bare ass was exposed to the room. He tried to kick out but Gerard was expecting it and grabbed his ankle. His shorts were hauled completely off and then his legs were forcefully tied to opposite ends of the bench.

 _Oh god_.

It was abundantly clear to all present what was about to go down.

Closing his eyes tightly, Stiles didn’t want to see any of the expressions as the hunters closed in on him. He was sure he was going to hurl.

He couldn’t help jumping as Gerard placed a palm on his lower back. This movement effectively pressed Stile’s spine down, and his ass up or risk dislocating his hips. His face flamed at the suggestive position it forced out of him.

“That’s a proper bitch,” Francis said lecherously.

His cheeks were being spread open. A callused thumb swept over his pucker and Stiles groaned low in his throat at the violation.

“Looks like he’s already broken in,” Gerard commented, a measure of poisoned glee at the sight of the boy’s puffy hole. “Really Stiles. What would your father the Sheriff say?”

Bile was rising up Stiles’ throat. _That’s not._ _That was from—that was—_

Stiles jerked wildly at the rope around his wrists. Fear swept over him like a boiling tsunami. His nostrils flared as he labored for breath.

He barely heard anything past the roar in his ears. Except Gerard unzipping his pants. That sound was unmistakable and cut through his haze of terror like a knife.

“It’s said that a Pack bitch often develops their own natural lubrication in order to meet the demands of the monsters they service,” Gerard notched the half-hard head of his dick against Stiles’ hole. He didn’t see the cruel curve of Gerard’s lips, “Let’s see if the rumors are true.”

He didn’t even get any warning before Gerard shoved in. Stiles screamed, all the muscles and veins bulged in his long neck, the gag muffling the force of the noise. Gerard seated himself to the hilt in one go with no hesitation, no preparation.

The werewolves hanging on the hook thrashed in response to what was happening. Gerard gave them a toothy sneer as he jabbed his hips forward hatefully. Stiles made a horrible noise at the movement. His one good hand clawed at the bench.

Stiles was torn apart in so many ways in that moment. And not all it was physical.

His desperate hope that Scott would finally come to his rescue was viciously and cruelly laid to rest. If once was an incident, twice was a coincidence, and three times was a pattern. Well this was four. And not even his dad, with a warrant could make this go away.

It was too late.

If Stiles could have, he probably would have laughed through his tears. It was so damn funny all of a sudden. Gerard and his sicko cronies thought that by hurting him they were hurting somebody important to Scott, or Derek’s pack, or hell, even his Dad. But suddenly everything was crystal clear.

No one was coming for him _._

Scott was likely all in a lather over Allison somehow and had completely forgotten Stiles. Hell maybe no one had even noticed he was missing from the field. It wouldn’t be the first time. His dad was likely caught up in his job. It was always Sheriff Stilinski first, Dad second. He might wonder where Stiles was when his shift ended, maybe. As for Derek? How the Hell Creepy Grandpa here thought he meant anything more than a convenient punching bag for that lot, Stiles had no idea.

He was invisible.

He was _no one_.

Stiles choked out groans were muffled by the gag. Gerard had one iron-clad grip on the back of his neck, pushing him roughly into the bench with each thrust. It felt like a beating. Stiles was under no illusion that he was torn and bleeding back there already. Dr. Deaton’s stitches couldn’t have been healed that long and now Gerard was ____

He couldn’t think about it.

No.

Tears dripped down the side of Stiles nose. He tried to snuffle the mess so that he could breathe but it was getting pretty gross.

“Nothing to say now—boy?” Gerard said raggedly in his ear. Stiles shuddered and tried to twitch away. That damned skeletal hand on his shoulder blades shoved him down hard. His burning ribs _creaked_ and Stiles let out a muffled coughing wail of pain.

“That’s it, pack bitch wants it.” Gerard grunted, his thrusts off rhythm.

Stiles opened his mouth wide in a silent scream as he felt the old man jackrabbit against his ass. Blunt nails scored his neck and the flesh of his hip as Gerard rode the wave of release.

As Gerard pulled his softening member free he said in that soft, deadly voice of his, “There. You’ve been bred by an Argent. No werewolf will look at you now.” He patted the reddened cheek of Stiles ass. He gave a nod to King.

Stiles eyes were blank as they stared ahead.

He flinched only when he felt someone else take Gerard’s place between his splayed legs. Stiles made a noise of protest. He tried to shout past the gag but it seemed no one cared. The man behind him, the Eastwood lookalike clearly since ‘Francis’ was standing in Stiles’ view, hand slowly working at his dick.

Stiles twitched and tried to avoid the head of Eastwood’s erection as the guy bumped the blunt head of his cock up against Stiles’ abused entrance. Hands grabbed his hips to hold him still and Stiles dropped his head in defeat.

“Your right, Argent,” the cigarette rough voice of the man behind Stiles said, “This bitch’s hole is sloppier than a pussy.” He nudged his cock through the mess between Stiles’ cheeks and reveled in the wet sounds he made.

Stiles wanted to die.

Gerard huffed a laugh. “Give him what he wants then, King. Don’t keep the slut waiting.”

This guy was going to be a prick. He eased himself in slowly and withdrew as if he was watching how his dick penetrated the prisoner.

Stiles immediately wanted to give himself a concussion to escape the torture. Slow and methodical was almost worse than hateful and rough. It made Stiles far too aware of his own body and what was being done to it. He squirmed, his breath picking up as panic began to rise to unbearable levels.

“S’alright,” Eastwood crooned roughly, spreading Stiles’ cheeks apart as he see-sawed back and forth, “I’ll show you what you’re missing with those monsters.” Every couple of lunges was punctuated by a deep grind that made Stiles lock his jaw. The move stimulated his prostate, and even though he was not _in any way_ aroused, he couldn’t help the way his soft dick jumped or his asshole clenched when the hunter did that.

“Still nice and tight,” the man groaned appreciatively, “for a dog fucker.”

Stiles choked on fury and bile. Tears bounced off the divot of his nose.

“It’s time,” Gerard said in the background, “I’m going to get my granddaughter. Russell you stay here with the prisoners, King--”

“Meet you upstairs in,” Eastwood did another slow grind, “two minutes.”

There was the heavy sound of footsteps on the stairs and then the door shut with an ominous click.

“Mmm, too bad we can’t keep this one a little longer,” Eastwood hummed as he enjoyed the slow drag of his cock against the teenager’s pink frothy hole.

Francis or rather, Russell was waiting his turn, slowly corkscrewing one hand around his angry-looking erection. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the way King’s thrusts jolted the flesh of the boys beautiful round ass. “No one said we can’t track him down again after he does what Gerard want’s him for,” he offered. His lips quirked up in a lazy smirk.

Stiles was drifting in a sea of pain. He didn’t hear the conversation going on over his head. It was probably for the best.

Eastwood seemed to like that suggestion. He draped himself heavily over Stiles’ back, his hips driving deeply, once. Twice. He gave a painful sounding groan. “Yeah,” he breathed after a long punctuated by Stiles sniffles. He met his partner’s eyes. Gave a short nod.

Stiles made an involuntary noise as the older man withdrew. It hurt even more this time. It hurt, and it was . . . messy. Fuck, it sounded like he was dripping on the floor!

There were sounds of perfunctory cleanup as Eastwood likely made an attempt to clean himself. “Ha!” The man barked, “We’re going to make the beasts wild just by scent alone!”

His stomach sank even more. Were they going after the pack? Now? Stiles blearily tried looking once more for escape, but the new hand trailing down his sweaty spine made him blank out in terror.

“We’re alone,” Francis told him, “As much as I don’t mind an audience, I want your hungry little pussy to myself, pack whore.”

There was an unexpected blow to his back, his kidneys, which made Stiles crumple into the bench further. He had no breath left in order to cry out. Black spots filled his vision as he tried to suck in enough air through his snotty nose. He tasted copper at the back of his throat.

“That’s it, bitch.” Francis said, “Present your faggot ass for me.”

Something sunk into his ass and wiggled around, Stiles groaned in agony. Dude’s fingers. He was jabbing them around.

“Yeah, plenty wet. You must like a lot of dick,” Francis sneered. “Is that what you do? Sit on Alpha dick all day?”

God. It was probably good Stiles was gagged. Even hurt as he was, there were just so many things he wanted to say to these assholes. His filter was likely as broken as his faith in his friends.

Francis notched the head of his cock on Stiles’ abused rim. “I only wish the rest of your pack could see you getting the wolf fucked out of you.” He suctioned the tip in and out of Stiles’ slick wet hole, gaping and drooling come from the previous two hunters. “Maybe when they don’t want your loose hole any more you’ll come crawling to us,” he said, sliding deeper into the sobbing boy. “Ah yeah, your nice and hot inside. _Fuck._ ” He gripped Stiles hips tight enough to bruise. “Hold your ass up, I **said** _, hold your ass up!_ ”

He punched Stiles in the kidneys again.

Stiles’ whole body was shaking. He could barely think around the agony. He only knew he didn’t want to be punched again. So as much as his rope-bound limitations allowed, he raised his hips to the hunter’s satisfaction.

“That’s it,” Francis said with relish, as he hammered his hips forward. “Fuck. Oh fuck!” He groaned in pleasure. “I’m going to fill you up.”

His thrusts were vicious and self-gratifying. Designed to hurt. Francis’ head tipped back and his mouth dropped open in a loud groan, “Oh fuuuuck!”

The squelching was getting more obnoxious. Stiles wanted desperately to cover his ears. He could feel the come slipping out around Francis’ pulsing dick.

Francis staggered back and Stiles couldn’t help the cry of pain at the rough disengage. Stiles sagged bonelessly to the bench, uncaring about his twisted legs. He was barely conscious as Francis tucked his messy half-hard cock away in his pants.  “Time to get this show on the road,” the hunter said under his breath, whistling a jaunty tune as he turned to check the contents of an open duffle bag.

He didn’t really react when the door above the staircase opened and Chris Argent took a couple steps down.

It was when the renowned hunter paused that Francis looked up with a questioning frown on his face.

“What’s this?” Chris asked coolly. His eyes glancing over the buzz-cut and familiar jersey only briefly. He didn’t really need much more of an explanation than what was laid out in front of his eyes.

Shrugging, Francis tossed a bundle of ultrasonic emitters into the bag and zipped it up. “Boss wants to send a message.” He waved vaguely in Stiles’ general direction, “Feel free to have a go, if you don’t mind thirds.”

Chris made no sign that the information made him want to hurl. Thirds . . . that meant—

“So we’re raping underage kids now?” He commented sharply.

Francis, rather, Russell looked at Chris, eyes narrowing. “Kid’s in a werewolf pack. He’s fair game.” He shrugged, unrepentant.

A muscle in Chris’ jaw ticked. “You have all gone too far. Put the .45 down.”

Russell grinned humorlessly. “Your father was right, you’re getting soft.” He pulled the gun out from behind his back but aimed it at the other hunter instead of disarming.

Chris sneered, “Soft or Psychotic. I’ll take the first option.” He already had his Desert Eagle out and cocked. His trigger finger twitched and Russell reacted to the danger, shooting at the younger Argent. He wasn’t expecting Chris to use the distraction of the faked-out shot to throw a bowie knife with his other hand.

The bowie knife hit its target. Right between the eyes.

Russell fell heavily to the cement floor. His eyes staring wide and shocked at the exposed rafters of the ceiling.

Chris moved swiftly. He withdrew a smaller knife from the inside of his jacket sleeve and efficiently slipped it through the roped holding Stiles to the bench. He supported the half-conscious boy to the floor. “Stiles I’m sorry about this but--”

RIIIP

The tape came free of Stiles face with a loud tear but Stiles barely made a noise. His darkened whiskey eyes were unable to focus on his surroundings. Chris searched frantically for something to wrap the boy in. Clearly he was in shock.

It wasn’t ideal, but he dragged over a wool picnic blanket folded on one of the shelves. He hurriedly tucked Stiles into the blanket after awkwardly replacing the lacrosse shorts back over the boy’s naked bleeding hips.

“Shit, Stiles. Shit. I’m sorry!” Chris didn’t know he was mumbling under his breath as he worked. “I didn’t know.”

Covered and so far unresponsive, Chris had no choice but to leave Stiles on the floor while he cut the power to the generator and released Erica and Boyd.

The two beta werewolves were clearly too weak to shift but they immediately headed for the tortured human curled up on the floor.

“Stiles!” Erica rasped out a hoarse cry of anguish. She fell to the cement floor by the boy’s side.

“You can’t stay here,” Chris told them grimly. “I don’t know when they plan on coming back and Stiles needs medical attention--”

Stiles hand darted out and grabbed a fist full of Chris’ pant leg. “No—‘stital,” came his raw voice.

His jaw clenching, Chris stared down at the pale boy. He was seeing the image of Stiles as he found him. That image was going to haunt him for a long time. “Stiles, you—your hand needs an xray and . . . you’re going to need to have someone . . . look at you.” He struggled.

Stiles knew what that meant. Stitches. Invasive. Horrible, humiliating, stitches and impersonal searching fingers. _No._ He decided. _I can’t go through that again._ _I won’t._ He shook his head in denial.

Erica was whimpering, trying to ease closer without spooking him. Stiles wordlessly patted her dirty blond hair with his unbroken hand. Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes at the familiar gesture. Boyd stood over the two protectively, despite the fact that he was swaying in exhaustion. He was making a low, rattling growl and it looked like he was unaware that he was doing so. His face a study of forced stoicism.

Chris wanted to rub his face. They were just kids. His father had—

“Ok. I’m going to get the truck and drop you guys of somewhere safe,” He couldn’t help the way his voice grew hard. He didn’t mean to make Stiles flinch. “Then I’m going to stop Allison and my father.”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is so blessedly awesome to offer artwork or anything just drop me a line I would seriously worship at your altar of coolness.
> 
> I love all the Teen Wolf people (actors/writers et. al.) So much respect. My apologies for liberating your hard work for my (and others) gratuitous pleasure. This is not done for financial gain now or ever. Just for funsies.


End file.
